


Rewrite This Story

by idoltina



Category: Glee
Genre: Agoraphobia, Anxiety Disorder, Canonical Character Death, Coercion, Composer Blaine Anderson, Consent Issues, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Eating Disorders, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Medicinal Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Night Terrors, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Violence, Police Officer Kurt Hummel, Safewords, Sex Toys, Sexual Coercion, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 104,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six outer walls, five doors, five rooms, three windows, and one balcony. This is the world in which Blaine Anderson has lived for ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

> **Artist:** [sillygleekt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sillygleekt/works)
> 
>  **Warnings:** accidental self-injury, adult language, agoraphobia, anxiety disorders, depressive disorders, discussion of previous relationships with consent and abuse issues, domestic arguments with borderline abusive language, eating disorders, flashbacks and mentions of past homophobia and violence, mental disorders, mentions of night terrors, mentions of previous character death (both canonical and noncanonical), mild dominant/submissive dynamics, mild illness, obsessive compulsive disorder, panic disorders, possible coercion (medical and sexual), prescribed drug use, sex (including blowjobs, fingering, handjobs, masturbation, riding, use of sex toys), therapy, use of safewords
> 
>  
> 
> **Author’s Notes:**  
> 
> 
> Written as part of [beyond dapper’s](http://www.beyond-dapper.livejournal.com) 2013 _Blaine Big Bang_. Affectionately subtitled _recluse!Blaine_.
> 
> This piece portrays someone in a therapy situation, and certain liberties were taken based on the relationship of the characters. Readers should not expect real life therapy sessions to work like those in this piece. This piece also depicts a situation similar to a support group, and liberties were taken with it as well. Again, readers should not expect real life support groups to be like the one portrayed in this piece.
> 
> This piece vividly deals with a variety of disorders, often in vivid and explicit detail. If you are easily triggered by any of the aforementioned items in the list of warnings, please exercise caution in reading this piece. In particular, this piece heavily deals with someone with anxiety and panic disorders. This is one portrayal of someone in this position, specific to the character in the story. Not everyone who has these disorders has similar experiences. The character is not a template for everyone with anxiety and panic disorders. The same goes for all disorders mentioned in this piece. Every depiction is specific to the characters in the piece and should not be assumed to be one-hundred percent accurate or true for anyone with similar disorders.
> 
> If you are familiar with [hedgerose’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerose/works) [(Def)inition](http://archiveofourown.org/series/23330) verse, you may notice some similarities at times, particularly in comparison with her more recent updates (see: chapter eighteen). This was completely unintentional. We both happened to be working on our own pieces simultaneously, but no plagiarism occurred. (Also, we are very close friends; eerily similar writing was bound to happen at some point.)
> 
> | [ART](http://sillygleekt.livejournal.com/9411.html) | [FANMIX](http://8tracks.com/idoltina/rewrite-this-story) | [epub](http://bit.ly/19NUJz5) | [.mobi for Kindle](http://bit.ly/1aGQzO1) | [PDF](http://bit.ly/1eSLwJN) |
> 
> * * * * *

** October **

Six outer walls, five doors, five rooms, three windows, and one balcony.

This is the world in which Blaine Anderson lives.

This is the place he calls home.

* * * * *

Friday is Blaine’s least favorite day of the week.

Friday is the day he opens his front door to Jorge, the man who delivers his groceries every week. It’s the day he walks fifty paces to the garbage chute down the hall. It’s the day he jogs two flights down to check his mail in the lobby and retrieve his prescription, and it’s the day he takes the extra flight down to the exercise room in the basement. Friday is the day he moves more than any other day. It’s the day he keeps the window in the dining room closed, the day he avoids the balcony. It’s the day there’s an addition to his nightstand, the day his time at the piano is for him and not his bank account. Friday is the day he spends more time in the kitchen, hands kneading dough, oven constantly warm behind him.

Friday is the day he’s forced to push the boundaries of his world beyond the six walls he lives in.

Friday is his favorite day of the week.

Friday is the day that he’s reminded he’s not alone. It’s the day he has fresh baking supplies to keep his hands occupied. It’s the day he has a brand new bottle of pills, the day he runs and pushes and pulls and floods his system with endorphins. Friday is the day he loses himself in keys and chords and melodies and doesn’t write anything down, the day he leaves the blank sheet music tucked away in his desk drawer. Friday is the day he’s scared, and it’s the day he feels safe.

Friday is the beginning and the end, and each bleeds into the next until he can’t tell them apart.

* * * * *

His mother visits every other Sunday, occasionally with his father in tow. With her, she brings lunch from her favorite cafe, soups and salads that vary depending on the season and menu changes. Today, the second Sunday of the month, she brings with her a salad made with kale, pears, pecans, and parmesan, as well as a butternut squash soup. She’s alone this time, but Blaine doesn’t mind; he’ll see plenty of his father in the next couple of months, with Thanksgiving and Christmas and his birthday coming up. Together, Blaine and his mother settle down at his dining room table to eat. And -- as usual -- she does most of the talking. He makes noises of assent around mouthfuls of food as she shares her stories. He doesn’t mind, though. He never has very much to offer in return, and his mother’s stories remind him of a life he long ago left behind, outside of these walls.

“Your brother’s coming into town for Thanksgiving,” she informs him.

“Mmm.”

She pauses, fork hovering between her plate and her mouth, before she adds, “We got an invitation from your Aunt Adrienne.”

“Oh?”

“She’s hosting the family reunion up in Maine late next summer.”

He shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair and doesn’t meet her eyes. “Okay. Are you and Dad planning on going?”

“I think so,” his mother muses, stabbing daintily at her salad. “Your brother’s even thinking of going, if he’s not working.” Another pause, and when Blaine doesn’t reply, he can see her wave her hand dismissively in the air, fork gleaming in the sunlight. “It doesn’t matter right now, though,” she sighs. “We don’t have to let her know how many from our family will be attending until a month or so ahead of time. There’s plenty of time.”

And still, Blaine can’t bring himself to look at her, because he can hear it in her voice, the unspoken question and prompting and desire. She won’t say anything -- she wouldn’t dare and she’s never really known how -- but Blaine knows her well enough to be able to read between the lines. She’s waiting for him to respond, to give her the avenue she’s looking for, permission to talk about it, but Blaine won’t give it to her. “I’m sure Cooper will have plenty of stories to entertain the family with if he goes.” A beat -- he can hear the slightly sharp intake of breath but doesn’t give her time to respond. “I made a pie on Friday,” he says conversationally. “Apple. I thought I could cut a couple of slices for dessert, if you’re interested?” He looks up at her then, slow and deliberate and resolute, chin lifted a little higher than normal.

She takes the hint and lets the subject drop. “That sounds lovely,” she says quietly, smoothing her hands over the napkin in her lap. “I’ll have to take a piece home to your father. It’s his favorite.” She pokes idly at her salad now, uninterested. “Have you been working on anything new?” she tries.

Blaine sighs and lets his spoon fall against the side of his bowl with a slight clatter. “Yeah, actually,” he says, voice falsely bright. “I can play what I have for you after dessert, if you’d like.”

“I would like that,” she says softly. She sounds so _sincere_ when she says it that it makes Blaine feel a little bad for being short with her. He’s not particularly comfortable talking about his issues and limitations with her, and he knows that it’s difficult for her to talk about it as well, but sometimes he wishes that it wasn’t. Sometimes he wishes that she wouldn’t be quite so awkward around him. Her walking on eggshells around him makes him feel like there’s a part of her that’s just kind of... given up, despite how much she wishes he could help him. He has mixed feelings about that, her desire and approach to helping him, but he knows that it comes from a place of caring.

He rises from his chair and starts to collect their dishes. She reaches out for him when he gets close and places her hand delicately on his arm, tugging slightly to get him to lean down. He goes with her pull and she meets him halfway, lips pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before letting him go.

As Blaine turns to take the dishes into the kitchen, out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees his mother’s gaze drift to the city of New York outside of his dining room window.

With a barely suppressed sigh, Blaine retreats further into his apartment.

* * * * *

Blaine feels safe on Tuesdays.

Tuesdays are the days that bring Tracie to him. Today, she shows up at his front door with a glistening yellow umbrella and a rain-spotted coat. “It is _pouring_ outside,” she laughs, shaking the umbrella off before she steps inside. Blaine smiles and moves aside to let her in, closing the door behind her. He helps her out of her coat as she toes off her shoes by the door.

“Would you like anything?” he asks politely, hanging her coat up on the hook behind the door. “Normally, I’d offer water, but I thought you might want tea or something with this weather. I only have decaf, but --”

“Tea sounds lovely,” she says warmly, picking up her bag. “I’ll meet you in the living room? I won’t start the hour until you’re settled in and ready.” She leaves him alone in the kitchen with the tea kettle, and he sets to work, unearthing mugs and honey and sugar while he waits for the water to boil. It’s comforting, the silence in the kitchen while he waits. Tracie knows him well enough to know what his coping mechanisms are, and she knows -- has always known -- when to give him the space he needs. Preparing a cup of tea for her gives him the few extra minutes he needs to prepare for this week’s session.

The kettle whistles, and Blaine flexes his fingers around the handle.

He gives her a bag of green tea and opts for a berry flavored one for himself, and he brings the honey and sugar out with him into the living room. He’s fairly certain she takes her tea with both, if he remembers correctly, but he doesn’t want to assume. He’s rewarded when she adds a spoonful of sugar and a drizzle of honey into her mug. The spoon makes a quiet clinking sound as she stirs, the noise disruptive to the steady patter of rain on his windows. She blows a puff of air over her mug, causing the spiraling steam to uncurl, and meets his eyes over the rim.

His fifty minutes start now.

Blaine takes the first minute for himself. He picks up his own mug and cradles it in his hands, letting the warmth spread through him. He doctors his own mugs of tea and coffee with an abundance of sugar or honey or creamer, and he lets the sweetness settle on his tongue as he takes a sip. One more, and he sets the mug back down on the coffee table before smoothing his palms over his thighs. “Every five years, my extended family has a reunion. My first was when I was six months old. I don’t remember it, obviously, but the ones that followed -- when I was five and ten -- those I remember.”

“And what do you remember?” Tracie prompts.

“Water balloons,” Blaine says simply. “At some point during the week, there would always be this epic water balloon fight. Even the adults got in on it. And I remember -- I remember thinking that something as simple as being pelted with water balloons could really tell you a lot about a person.”

“And you came to this grand conclusion at the age of five or ten?” Tracie says dryly, teasing him.

Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Yeah, well. Hindsight.”

“So what did you learn?”

“That I liked helping people,” Blaine says quietly. “It didn’t matter what I got in return for it -- protection or more ammo or revenge or something else. When I was ten, I’d pull my younger cousins into the better hiding spots and give them extra water balloons.”

“I believe that,” Tracy says warmly.

The smile fades from Blaine’s face as he twists his hands one inside of the other. “My mother was here the other day,” he explains. “There’s another reunion next year.”

“Every five years,” Tracie remembers. “So I take it you didn’t go to the last two.”

Blaine shakes his head. “The last one -- when I was twenty -- was the last summer I spent at home before I moved into this apartment. My dad had to have his appendix removed just before the reunion. At least, I’m assuming that’s the excuse my mom gave to the rest of the family for our absence.”

“And when you were fifteen?” Tracie pries gently.

Blaine bites his lip. “I don’t know what excuse she gave then,” he admits. “It’s never really been easy for either of my parents to talk about. You know that. And I don’t think I cared what she fed them, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the truth. I was -- I’d just switched meds and the adjustment was really difficult for me.”

“I remember,” Tracie says quietly. “So what are your thoughts on the upcoming reunion? Are you considering going?”

Blaine shakes his head. “No, but --” He leans back and reclines his head against the top and back of the sofa. “Sometimes, I think I miss the idea of family more than I actually miss _them_ , you know? I miss the feeling I get when I can help them, but I hardly remember them anymore, it’s been so long. And even if I was seriously considering going, even if I really wanted to, if I _could_ \-- if I could force myself out of the lobby door, there’s a part of me that wouldn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Blaine sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, “it would -- and, admittedly, I realize how petulant this is going to sound -- be spiteful toward my mother.”

“How so?”

“She wants me to go,” Blaine explains.

“Did she say that, specifically?” Tracie asks.

“No,” Blaine admits. “Not in those exact words, but -- you weren’t there when she mentioned it. I asked her if she and my dad were planning on going, and she said yes, but she immediately followed it up with the information that my brother was planning on going too.”

“And that bothered you,” she guesses.

`”I don’t like that she tried using the tension between us to provoke me into going,” Blaine says, shifting uncomfortably. “I --” He sits upright and tucks his hands under his legs, forcing himself to meet Tracie’s eyes. “I love my parents. They have taken... _prodigiously_ good care of me, but they don’t -- they’ve never really known how to handle this themselves. But when she does stuff like this -- the way she looks at me sometimes, it’s like she just wants me to be _fixed_.”

“But she’s never actually said that to you, has she?”

“No,” Blaine allows, slightly exasperated. “Of course not.”

“Then it’s an assumption on your part. It’s your point of view,” Tracie reasons. And because she knows him so well, she holds up a hand to prevent him from protesting. “Just... hear me out. I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings. You don’t have the justify them to me. I’m here to help you make sense of them, if I can. And the point I’m trying to make is important, Blaine, because it’s all about perception -- how you view the world and the people in it and how it sees you and what the reality is versus all of that. So you think this is how she sees you, but it might be very different from how she actually sees you. And you have no way of knowing what the reality is if she doesn’t share her perception with you.”

“Yeah, well, given my history with people sharing their perception of me with me, I think I’ll stick to making assumptions, thanks,” he says bitterly.

“So fight fire with fire, then?” she says. “People make assumptions about you, so you make assumptions about them?”

Blaine furrows his eyebrows. “That’s very... passive-aggressively judgmental of you.”

“I’m not trying to judge you,” she insists. “I know you, Blaine, and I know that you don’t like to stoop to other people’s levels. Fighting fire with fire isn’t your style, and it isn’t conducive to helping people, which is what you really want.”

“I’m not going,” Blaine reminds her, “so I won’t be able to help people. And my mother can’t help me.”

“Do you want her to stop trying?”

Blaine lets out a frustrated, impatient noise and rubs at his temples. “I wouldn’t call what she does ‘trying,’ Tracie. And it’s like -- it’s like there’s a part of her that’s just kind of... given up on me.”

“Maybe it’s not about other people giving up on you,” Tracie suggests. “Maybe it’s about you giving up on yourself.”

Blaine looks up at her darkly. “You say that like I’m just not trying hard enough,” he snaps. “That if I just put a little more effort into it, work harder, actually _try_ , that I wouldn’t -- that I wouldn’t have attacks, or need my meds. That if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, I could go outside and everything would be okay.”

“I’m not saying that at all,” Tracie says gently. “I know that there’s a lot that’s out of your control. But I also think that there’s more that _is_ within your control that maybe you’re just not aware of.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but it’s something we could look into,” she offers. “We can explore your desire to help people, your desire for a sense of family -- one that you choose, or one that chooses you, rather than one you’re born into.” She pauses, then, before continuing. “I can’t imagine how lonely you must be, Blaine.”

It’s a comment -- an insight, really, that she wouldn’t normally make, and Blaine can’t bring himself to mind all that much because she’s right. He rubs furiously at his eyes, trying to force the tears that spring up back in. “It’s not like I want to be,” he gasps. “It’s not like I want to be this way. I don’t want to be looked at like -- like I’m broken, like I need to be fixed. This is just who I am, Tracie.”

“Your illness doesn’t define you, Blaine,” Tracie reminds him. “It’s part of you, but it’s something you have, and still are learning to deal with. You’re still functional, Blaine. And there is more to you than what keeps you inside.” He takes a breath, heavy and uneven, and reaches for his tea with shaking hands. “Try something for me. If you were to meet someone new and you had to describe yourself to them, what would be the first thing you’d say?”

Blaine takes a few minutes to think about it, which is sort of the opposite of the point of the experiment, but he needs the time to drink his tea and calm his hands and nerves. He glances around the living room, looking for specific indicators that might provide insight into him at all, and finds his answer when his gaze lands on the baby grand on the far side of the room. “That I’m a composer,” he answers finally.

Tracie smiles at him. “See?” she points out. “Not related to your illness or inhibitions at all. It’s related to your work, which doesn’t necessarily define you either, but at least it’s a positive thing.” Blaine relaxes a little and shifts his gaze to the liquid in his mug. “Give me another.”

His fingers trace around the rim of his mug, and it takes him a little longer to come up with a second answer. “I like to bake,” he offers, shrugging slightly.

“Not quite as unrelated,” she says, “since it’s technically also a coping mechanism, but still, it’s a good thing.”

His fingers twitch against the ceramic of his mug. “I kind of feel like baking right now.”

“Do you really want to use up the rest of your minutes on baking?” she asks dryly.

He flicks his gaze over to her, fighting back a smile. “That’s low,” he says, unable to hold back a slight laugh.

She grins at him. “It got you to laugh.”

A smile flickers onto his face, and he looks over at her apologetically. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“That tends to happen when people jump to conclusions.”

His smile fades, and he drops his gaze back to his mug. “I tend to assume and expect the worst,” he admits quietly. “It’s kind of hard not to when it’s happened to you before.”

“A valid point,” Tracie allows, “but it still comes back to perception.”

“Perception can be skewed,” Blaine argues. “It’s -- I used to be really into photography when I was a kid. It was one of the ways my dad and I bonded, before I came out. We developed all of our own film and everything. I think I still have some of my old equipment around here somewhere. But I learned a lot -- or, I realized a lot, in hindsight. Perception often disregards intention. People see what they want to see.” He sets his mug back down on the coffee table with a loud sigh, frustrated. “And I am... tired of people -- no matter who they are or how well they think they know me -- seeing me _wrong_ , Tracie.”

“Could that be another contributing factor to you not considering going to the reunion?” Tracie suggests. “You don’t want their perception of you to be skewed either?”

Blaine grips his knees tight and shifts uncomfortably on the couch again. “I don’t even know if I’m technically out to them,” he says. “And given how people reacted when I came out, I don’t -- I just don’t want to take a chance on trying to regain a sense of family only to lose it again.”

“What about your father?” Tracie tries. “What did he say about the reunion?”

“He hasn’t said anything yet. He didn’t come with my mother the day she told me. Maybe he wanted to avoid it,” Blaine laughs. “He’s not any better about being able to talk about it -- he’s just as awkward -- but at least he doesn’t _hover_ like she does. He gives me the space I need to breathe.”

“And Cooper?”

Blaine closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Cooper sucks all of the air out of the room for himself.”

“So the potential risks and losses of going to the reunion outweigh the potential benefits,” Tracie surmises. “And you don’t feel comfortable enough to try talking to your family about it.”

“I trust you more than I trust them,” Blaine admits quietly.

Tracie’s face turns a little pink, but she offers him a warm smile. “Well, I’m glad I can be a soundboard, even if I can’t help in any other way.”

Together, they sip their tea, and as the minutes tick on, Blaine feels warm even on a rainy Tuesday.

* * * * *


	2. November

** November **

_Friday, 29 November 2019_

Cooper shows up on a Friday.

Black Friday, specifically, the day after Thanksgiving. It’s not exactly a surprise, considering that their family had dinner in Blaine’s apartment the night before, but it’s still unexpected and unnerving when Blaine opens his front door and finds Cooper instead of Jorge. “Coop,” he says uneasily, flexing his fingers against the edge of the door, “what are you doing here?”

Cooper lets himself in without permission and bypasses the kitchen for the dining room, voice traveling as he speaks. “It’s the holidays, little bro,” he says, voice too loud in the space. Blaine shuts the door quietly and moves to follow him, eyes surveying his brother cautiously as they make their way into the living room. “Mom and Dad left for Maine this morning and I wanted to spend some time with you before I left for production.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Blaine asks, turning the corner as Cooper ducks into Blaine’s bedroom.

Cooper’s pulled open Blaine’s closet and is shuffling through the hangers on the far left, passing up sweaters and cardigans and hoodies for blazers. “I know you don’t get out much, Blainey,” Cooper says, and god, he really has no idea. “And I know we don’t see each other a lot, so I thought,” he says, pausing with a blazer in hand to cross the room to dig through a drawer in Blaine’s nightstand, “that we could have a guys night out. Maybe have a few drinks, go to a movie or something -- I haven’t seen the new Nicolas Cage yet.”

Blaine swallows thickly and wraps his arms around his midsection. “Um, no thanks, Coop,” he declines, voice quiet. “We can hang out here, if you want, but --”

Cooper heaves a great sigh and grabs hold of Blaine’s shoulder to turn him around and shove him back out into the living room. “I love you, little brother, but you are not doing yourself any favors shutting yourself up here. Let me take you out and teach you how to live a little.”

Blaine stumbles as Cooper pushes him back out through the dining room and kitchen toward the front door. He leans back against Cooper’s hand at the sight of the front door, wishing Cooper would take the hint. “Coop, I really don’t -- I can’t -- I haven’t --” He’s losing control of his speech and Cooper isn’t even paying attention to him anyway. He helps Blaine shrug into the blazer and shoves Blaine’s wallet into the pocket of Blaine’s pants before yanking the door open and tugging Blaine out by the elbow. The door clicks shut behind them, and Blaine barely has time to turn around before Cooper’s locking it shut and depositing the keys in Blaine’s pocket. He slings an arm around Blaine’s shoulders and ushers him down the hall.

Down the hall and down two flights of stairs and there’s the lobby door and where is the doorman and Cooper won’t stop talking and Blaine feels like a dog resisting a bath, feet stalling, hands pushing at Cooper to get him to stop, because out that door is the rest of the world and he hasn’t -- he can’t --

The wind hits him like a cold slap to the face, and Blaine can’t _move_.

Cooper just brought him outside.

Blaine can’t bring himself to care about Cooper or his intentions or his desires. He wants nothing more than to turn around and go back inside but he can’t. Cooper’s hold on him is strong and there’s too much assaulting Blaine’s senses, smell and sight and sound. He can’t bring himself to focus or process any of it, body slack against Cooper’s side as his heart begins to pound.

Wherever Cooper ends up taking him isn’t far -- or maybe it is, Blaine really has no idea. But it’s dark and crowded and the whole place _smells_. Cooper doesn’t seem to care, just leans in close and yells “I’ll grab some drinks” into Blaine’s ear before disappearing completely.

And then Blaine is on his own.

Outside. For the first time in a decade. In the real world. In a place he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t know how far he is from his apartment. He doesn’t know anyone outside of his brother, who just _abandoned him_ , god, to get drinks that Blaine can’t even have. Behind him is the door back outside. In front of him, there’s no escape.

Blaine sucks in a breath and blindly makes his way forward, hardly able to see straight. His breathing picks up pace, eyes watering and clouding his vision. There’s too much noise around him, white and fuzzy and too loud in his ears. He just wants to be alone, he just wants to be away from here, he just wants to be home, he just wants to be safe. In the back of the building, he finds a hallway and presses his palm flat against the wall until he finds a door that gives. Quickly, he stumbles inside, vaguely registering that he’s in a bathroom. He gasps for air, making his way to the far wall before turning and sliding to the floor.

He’s hyperventilating now, in the midst of a full-blown panic attack that he can’t stop. He doesn’t have his meds with him or anyone that can help him; he’s going to have to wait this out on his own and then -- and then what, find his way home? He’s not sure he could remember his address right now, much less his name, and he’s even less sure that he would be able to ask someone for help. Eyes watering, he rests his shaking hands on top of his knees and closes his eyes, trying desperately to get his breathing under control. But he _can’t_ , he can’t because he’s outside for the first time in a decade and there’s a reason for that and he _has_ no control over this situation and he can only expect the worst and --

And then the bathroom door squeaks open, and Blaine is too paralyzed by his own panic to do more than open his eyes and watch a pair of mens shoes move slowly towards him.

“Excuse me?”

The voice is gentle and tentative and not at all what Blaine was expecting. He’s not sure what he was expecting, really, but he tends to expect the worst, which really doesn’t help with the panic attacks. He tries to draw breath but struggles, still unable to get his breathing under control. “Are you okay?” Wordlessly, Blaine shakes his head, and fuck, he’s actually crying now. It doesn’t make trying to catch his breath any easier, and he tightens his grip on his knees. The shoes stop in front of him before the man kneels. He doesn’t reach out to touch, though, just looks, and Blaine can’t bring himself to look away. “I think -- I think you’re having a panic attack,” the man says slowly. “Have you had one before?” Blaine nods, heart hammering in his chest. He’s starting to feel a little light-headed, but still he doesn’t look away. “Okay, can you --” The man hesitates, hands flexing a little before he nods in Blaine’s direction. “Can you put your hands on your abdomen for me? Try and breathe a little deeper?” Blaine blinks in surprise, brow wrinkling a little in confusion, but he finds himself obliging, hands shifting from his knees to his torso. He feels movement under his hands as breathes, a too-rapid up-down that he wishes he could stop. “You’re breathing,” the man reminds him. “Try and focus on that, okay? You’re still breathing.”

It’s what he’d been told, in the beginning. It helped him start to think logically again, to realize and remember that he was still breathing, that it was something real and tangible beneath his touch, that it was something he could, eventually, control. He knows this will help, so he tries to focus, in, out, in, out, up, down, slow down, find a steady rhythm, rhythm and reason and rhyme and chords and melodies. His fingers start to move against his abdomen as his breathing evens out just a little, playing a phantom song against his body. It’s almost unconscious, the shift to music, and Blaine’s vision starts to clear a little, eyes still fixed on the man in front of him. “Do you know what triggered you?” the man asks, still quiet, or as quiet as he can be with all of the noise outside. “It’s okay if you don’t -- I know that they just _happen_ sometimes, but --”

“I don’t feel safe.” The answer falls from Blaine’s lips more readily and easily than he was expecting it to, surprising him. He takes a second to mull that one over, that he’s answering a complete stranger’s questions and following instructions. In, out, rhythm and reason and Blaine realizes that it’s intuition taking over. The man in front of him clearly knows how to handle a panic attack, and that, for the moment, is all Blaine needs. “I don’t feel safe,” he says again, much more softly this time, and he fists at the material of his shirt a little in an attempt to grasp control.

The man’s gaze is steady, unmoving, unblinking, but still, he only nods and doesn’t touch. “What would make you feel safe?”

“I just want to go home,” Blaine breathes, closing his eyes. Maybe if he closes his eyes, this will have all been a really bad dream.

“Okay,” the man says simply. “Do you want me to call a cab?”

The idea of climbing into a cab and trusting a complete stranger to get him home and not wreck the car or kidnap him or -- “No,” Blaine says, inhaling sharply. He doesn’t voice his concerns out loud because somewhere, in the back of his mind, is a voice telling him that he’s overreacting and that his panic attacks are unwarranted and he has to push it down and away because this is real and he has no control over it and --

“Breathe,” the man says again. In, out, up, down, Blaine is alive and living and breathing and moving under his own touch and he _tries_ to calm down, even just a little, even at all. “I won’t call you a cab. Do you want -- can you walk, instead?”

“I -- I don’t know, maybe?” Blaine huffs out, frustrated. He squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, exhaling loudly through his nose. “I don’t --” He clams up, then, opening his eyes and biting his lip. “I don’t really know how to get home from here,” he admits, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. His face feels warm and his hands tremble against his abdomen, but his breathing has evened out a little, and he tries to focus on that rather than the embarrassment he feels or what this man might think of him.

“Okay, do you want --” The man hesitates, now, showing discomfort for the first time since he walked in. “I can walk you home, if you want. I don’t want to -- I just don’t want to leave you on your own like this.”

In, out, and Blaine’s hands finally still against his abdomen.

He is not alone.

Curiously, he surveys the man in front of him, finally able to take in some detail. Brown hair, blue-gray eyes, charcoal vest. Still waiting. Still not touching. “This... is really nice of you,” Blaine observes slowly. His heartbeat is still a little rapid in his chest but he’s hardly hyperventilating anymore. He’s not sure how that happened.

And then the man _smiles_ and Blaine can’t help his reaction to it. He feels the nearly forgotten twist of attraction in his gut, the increased speed of his heartbeat, and oh no, _no_. Blaine can’t help his reaction to the reaction either, can’t control the way his breath comes out shallow and his palms grow sweaty and no, _no_. He’d just gotten this panic attack under control and now it’s all gone --

“Do you have your wallet on you?” the man asks. “Identification or something to help me with your address?”

Distracted with the task, Blaine digs around his pockets with trembling hands until he finds his wallet in his pants pocket, a vague memory of Cooper putting it there resurfacing. And now that he has something tangible in his hand, Blaine tries to use that to his advantage. Slowly, he pries his wallet open, fingers fumbling for his state identification card. He doesn’t hand it to the man, though, just tries to keep a firm grip on it instead, waiting for the spasms in his hand to calm enough so he can read it properly. And slowly, clearly, his breathing starts to even out again as he speaks each word of his address out loud, once, twice, three times.

When he manages to put it all back in his pocket and look back up at the man, the man’s smiling again, though not as brightly as before. “That’s not far from here,” the man says gently. “It shouldn’t take too long. Do you need more time?”

Blaine shakes his head, moving his hands to the wall behind him. He rests his palms flat against it, anchoring himself there for a moment before he readies himself to rise. He blinks up again as he tries to push himself to his feet and -- _oh_. The man’s still kneeling in front of him, but his hand’s outstretched now, a silent, simple offering that Blaine can deny if he wants to.

He doesn’t want to.

Gratefully, Blaine slips his hand into the man’s and lets himself be tugged to his feet. The touch is brief, a few seconds at most, and when the man tries to pull his hand away, Blaine latches on and squeezes tight. “Please,” he whispers. “Don’t let go.”

The man doesn’t judge him. He doesn’t say anything or tug his hand away or give Blaine an odd look. He lets Blaine clutch his hand and uses the connection to move them toward the bathroom door. Louder, the music and the voices get louder the closer they get to the door and somehow, all Blaine can focus on is this hand clasped in his. He touches people so rarely -- he _sees_ people so rarely -- that the constant tactility feels like an electric current running up his arm, thrumming along with the bass of the music.

“I’m a composer,” he blurts out at the threshold of the door.

A gentle squeeze to Blaine’s hand, an interruption to the pulse, and the man’s other hand presses flat against the door. “Okay, music man,” he says with a nod. “Don’t let go.”

Moving back out of the bar -- or club, Blaine really had no idea and he doesn’t particularly care -- is like swimming underwater, everything a little blurry and muted as the man tows him along, weaving through the crowd. And, as if he’s underwater, Blaine holds his breath and clings to the man’s hand like a buoy. Outside, Blaine feels like he should be able to breathe easier, but he’s _outside_ and everything in his chest feels tight and he’s walking down the street holding the hand of another man and --

“Breathe,” the man instructs again, halting on the sidewalk. “It’s only a five minute walk, but -- are you sure you don’t need more time?”

Thinking about the answer to that requires using his brain, which means he has to keep breathing for it to work properly. And he considers it, stopping and sitting somewhere to collect himself, the alternative to holding this man’s hand for five minutes in the middle of the city. But it’s five minutes -- five opposed to fifteen or twenty or even thirty -- and Blaine just wants to be _home_. He wants to sit on the cool tile in the bathroom and take his meds and let them do the work for him.

An electric charge up his arm and his fingers twitch but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “Keep walking.” Forward again, picking up the pace, and Blaine fixes his gaze on his guide so he doesn’t panic at his surroundings. “Can you -- keep talking?”

Slightly slower pace and they’re level now, hands clasped between them. “What’s your name?”

“Blaine.”

“Kurt,” the man answers, and Blaine is not alone. “You said you were a composer. Do you specialize in anything?”

Blaine falters a little, stumbling slightly. “Not really,” he says, feeling suddenly awkward and uncomfortable, confined by his blazer. “Most of the time people will put their own lyrics to my work. I’ve had a few bigger artists interested, and I did the score for an indie film last year, but I don’t -- I just like music.”

“People say that if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life,” Kurt says. He pauses at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for the light on the crosswalk to change. He turns to face Blaine and smiles. “I bet your hours are pretty nice, too.”

“They’re not bad,” Blaine admits. He’s not -- he’s not sure what to do with himself or what he should say. No one ever asks about his work -- except for his parents, occasionally -- and he realizes that he’s almost forgotten how to _talk_ to someone. His conversational skills are rusty and out of practice. He has a grand total of six, maybe seven people that he converses with on a regular basis (and even then, his therapist is the one he talks to the most). It’s -- it’s startling in a way he hadn’t expected it to be. He remembers the manners his parents had instilled into him as a child and feels like he’s lost them, the courtesy and respect and polish. He’s not the same person he was, then.

He’s standing in the middle of the street in the city he grew up in and doesn’t recognize himself at all.

“Blaine?”

Blaine blinks back into awareness, eyes drifting past Kurt’s face to the crosswalk light. They’ve lost their window to cross and have to wait another cycle, and Blaine is that much further from home. “Do you need to stop?” Kurt asks again, but Blaine just shakes his head, lips pursed and eyes watering. He feels _lost_ and he just wants to go home. He’s sure he’s left himself there, tucked behind his six walls. He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and grabs hold of his keys, thankful for Cooper’s rare good sense for the first time all day.

Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hand a little tighter, and Blaine can feel Kurt’s heartbeat in their interlaced fingers. Or maybe it’s his own, he’s not really sure. Still, it’s a constant, steady thrum as they wait for the light to change again, and Blaine doesn’t feel alone.

The light changes, orange to white, and together, they move forward.

Halfway across the crosswalk, Blaine glances back over his shoulder. “What?” Kurt asks.

“I just... feel like I forgot something,” Blaine says absently, but his feet keep moving, one in front of the other, forward and unable to go back. He’s this much closer to home with each step. “How much longer?”

“Just another block,” Kurt assures him. “I promise I’ll keep you safe until then.” Blaine turns back around to look at him just in time to step up onto the curb. It’s a promise that makes him a little nervous even though he can’t explain why, and he starts to lose focus as they walk the rest of the distance to his apartment complex. There’s a flower bodega on the corner and a man with two children and a woman wearing a large, floppy hat that hides her face and a cyclist who rides by too fast and --

\-- and then there’s the bench outside of his apartment building, the one Blaine had pretty much completely forgotten about not long after he moved here over four years ago. His heart picks up pace at the sight of it and it takes everything in him not to run toward it at full speed. Running never solves anything -- it only ever brought him pain.

“This is you, right?” Kurt asks, slowing as they approach the building. Blaine nods, eyes fixed on the lobby doors, but Kurt halts just outside of them. Blaine starts a little, stumbling over his feet, and looks over at Kurt. “Do you, uh, need me to walk you to your door, or is this good?”

Truthfully, Blaine’s not sure he has an answer for that. He’ll feel safest when he’s back in his apartment, but he’s at least a little familiar and comfortable in the lobby and he’s already put Kurt out so much already and _oh_. There Blaine is, all manners and politeness and deference and considerate of others. Before he can answer, though, the doorman -- Porter -- pushes one of the doors open for him. “Mr. Anderson,” he greets tentatively, clearly surprised at seeing Blaine outside. “Are you and your... guest coming in?” Blaine shifts his gaze back over to Kurt, who is looking at him both expectantly and a little uncomfortably, but again, Blaine doesn’t get the chance to answer.

“Mr. Anderson!” a voice calls out, and oh, it’s Jorge, bag in hand and a smile on his face. “You’re not leaving, are you? I have your weekly delivery, if you could just sign for it.”

The door is open and Jorge is digging around for a pen and Kurt is _still_ holding Blaine’s hand and it’s too much, too many distractions pulling his focus and attention. He sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes for a second, trying desperately to keep his breathing under control long enough to get inside and get upstairs. “I’m headed in, Jorge, if you want to come up with me.” He can feel Kurt’s hand relax in his grip and Blaine opens his eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes, “for accompanying me home. I -- I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Kurt says warmly. “Are you... sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I think I will be,” Blaine answers honestly, because he has no way to be sure, given the circumstances, but things have always been okay after a panic attack, after he’s taken his meds, with enough time.

“Okay,” Kurt says softly, giving Blaine’s hand a final squeeze. “Put some music on when you get inside. And Blaine, remember -- _breathe_.” Blaine nods, exhaling slowly through his nose, and then Kurt’s hand is gone.

Instantly, Blaine feels like he’s adrift, drowning and suffocating and he has to remember to breathe, why is that so hard right now? Wordlessly, he gestures for Jorge to follow him. Inside, past Porter, up the stairs, down the hall. Key in lock, turn the handle, push the door open, take the bag from Jorge. Another breathless thank you, a few steps inside and the door clicks shut behind him.

Blaine is home.

Quickly, he deposits the bag on the kitchen island, knowing that there are only non-perishables inside given that yesterday was Thanksgiving and his entire refrigerator is still full. He digs into his pockets on his way through the apartment, unearthing his wallet and his keys as he walks into the bedroom. His phone is still sitting on the nightstand, forgotten by both Cooper and himself, and Blaine deposits his wallet and keys there to accompany it. His hand twitches toward the prescription bottle sitting there, but he doesn’t reach for it, not yet. He toes off his shoes and socks first before shrugging awkwardly out of his blazer. Belt undone and pants off and shirt unbuttoned and he’s left standing in his underwear, shivering for reasons entirely unrelated to the cold. It’s then that he reaches for the bottle and stumbles into the bathroom, heart hammering his chest.

Hands trembling, he shakes a pill into his hand before popping into his mouth, using water from the tap to help him swallow. He sets the bottle down on the counter before sinking to the floor, back against the side of the bathtub. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rocks a little, cold and quiet, breath stilted and shallow. It’s easier to focus now, in the silence, no distractions or threats to agitate him. Still, images of the events of the last hour flash in his mind, an assault he can’t stop, and his breathing gets out of control enough that he starts to hyperventilate again, making him dizzy and lightheaded.

Kurt’s face flashes into his mind, an echo of his words ringing in Blaine’s ears. _\-- put your hands on your abdomen for me -- you’re breathing -- remember -- breathe --_

Slowly, Blaine moves his trembling hands back to his abdomen and closes his eyes. In, out, up, down.

_Put some music on_ , Kurt had said.

Unable to push himself off of the floor, Blaine draws in a deep breath and starts to hum quietly, vibrato wavering as he fights to get the panic attack under control again. The sound vibrates deep in his chest, up his sternum and into his arms. Blaine’s fingers twitch against his abdomen, and again he plays a phantom melody. He gets halfway through the song before he feels like he can handle words and they don’t come easily, half-stuttered and slurred together. He takes the second verse more slowly in order to make the words come out more smoothly, and with the time, his medication finally starts to take effect. On pitch and on key, voice clear and even and unwavering, he sings the last line of the second verse -- _so I just fade away_ \-- and opens his eyes. A deep breath in and his voice echoes in the bathroom as he sings through the chorus, anxiety dissipating and giving way to a relaxation that he feels all the way down to his tendons, which is a strange sensation but not an unwelcome one.

He flexes his fingers and realizes that they’re no longer trembling. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet and moves back into the bedroom. He takes the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and curls it around himself before pulling back the comforter and sheets and crawling into bed. He -- well, he burrows, honestly, cheek nestled against his pillow, and takes a few moments to make sure his breathing has evened out before he attempts to finish the song. The sound of his voice comes out muffled and his eyelids start to droop, vision blurring as he fights sleep. He’s suddenly very tired, but then again, he always is after he’s had an extra dose. He wrinkles his nose a little, annoyed that he’s falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon because it means that his sleep schedule will be off for a few days.

In, out, up, down, and on the fourth Friday of November, Blaine does not feel safe.

* * * * *

_Friday, 29 November 2019_

Night falls.

A knock on the front door, accompanied by Cooper’s voice. “Blaine.”

Resolutely, Blaine ignores him.

“Blaine, I know you’re in there.”

Blaine tugs the blanket around his shoulders up over his head.

“Come on, Blainey, open the door.”

Blaine curls the edges of the blanket closer.

“Blaine,” Cooper prompts again, and oh, his voice has gone soft and quiet. “I didn’t know.”

Blaine works his jaw, hating the way his eyes well up with tears. Cooper sounds sincere, which is rare, but it doesn’t excuse what he did. Blaine curls up onto his side, nestling his head onto one of the pillows on the couch.

“Blaine,” Cooper pleads, “let me in.”

The moon rises in the window outside of his balcony, and Blaine leaves Cooper outside.

* * * * *

_Saturday, 30 November 2019_

Blaine wakes up late in the morning, lethargic and disoriented. It’s brighter in the apartment than it normally is when he wakes up, the noise from the street below suddenly irritatingly loud. Blaine wonders how it didn’t wake him up before now. He props himself up on his elbow and glances around his bedroom, groaning slightly and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It takes energy he doesn’t have to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom, and it’s not until he’s washing his hands and splashing water on his face that he starts to wake up properly. He catches his reflection in the glass of the mirror and does a double take, hands gripping the edge of the sink.

He went outside.

That’s not accurate. Cooper dragged him outside; it was cold and Blaine had a panic attack and he met someone beautiful and kind and there were flowers and a woman in a hat and he had to take more of his meds when he got home and --

And Blaine doesn’t have the energy to relive any of it or even think about it right now. He takes his morning pill, leaves the bed unmade, and drags his feet along sluggishly through the apartment into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave reads eleven-thirty, and Blaine shakes his head in disbelief, hating how disoriented he feels. Slowly, he makes his way around the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee. He has to have decaf, he can’t help that, but his tongue and his heart crave the warm, bitter taste, wanting it to linger on his tongue. While he waits for his coffee to brew, he opens the refrigerator and stares unseeing inside of it for a few minutes, willing his brain and stomach to work in tandem to figure out what he wants for breakfast. Lunch. Brunch. Whatever. Distracted and annoyed, Blaine grabs a variety of bags and containers and sets them on the kitchen island. Plates and knives from cabinets and drawers, and Blaine quietly starts to make himself a sandwich from Thanksgiving leftovers.

Blaine blinks up from where he’s putting together his lunch on the kitchen island at the sound of a knock on the front door. He’s willing to bet it’s either Cooper or one of his parents, and Blaine’s not up to seeing any of them right now. But the knocking persists, so Blaine abandons his food with a sigh and walks to the door. If it’s his parents, he’ll at least do them the courtesy of asking them to leave. He peers through the peephole, squinting a little, and pulls back abruptly, startled.

It’s _Kurt_.

And he’s in _uniform_.

As in navy blue, crisp, clean lines, gun in his holster, police officer Kurt.

Blaine blinks rapidly in surprise, stumbling backward until he hits the kitchen island. He didn’t think he’d ever see Kurt again, much less on his doorstep. Still, Blaine can’t ignore the way his hand twitches against the island, a phantom memory of Kurt’s hand in his. He follows the pull on instinct and reaches for the handle, pulling it open before he can stop himself. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Kurt returns breathlessly, corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “I thought -- I wasn’t sure if you’d be home or not.”

“Yeah, um --” Blaine rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing down to try and collect himself and _fuck_. He hasn’t even gotten dressed today and it’s already practically lunchtime. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, facing heating up. “I haven’t -- I wasn’t planning on -- I don’t normally greet people like this.”

“It’s fine,” Kurt assures him, smile growing a little. “I don’t normally show up on people’s doorsteps like this. Your doorman -- he recognized me from yesterday and let me up.”

“I can’t imagine Porter would’ve said no, considering,” Blaine says, gesturing at Kurt’s uniform.

Kurt glances down at his chest for a moment before looking back up at Blaine, a slight blush on his cheeks. “I’m on my lunch break,” he admits. “I just -- I wanted to see if you were okay, after yesterday. I thought about bringing something -- baked goods or flowers or something -- but I wasn’t sure if you were allergic to anything and it seemed a little presumptuous, especially considering that I was just going to show up on your doorstep like some creepy stalker and --”

“It’s not creepy.”

Kurt blinks at him in surprise. “It’s not?”

Blaine shakes his head and relaxes his grip on the edge of the door. “It’s... really nice of you.”

Kurt quirks an eyebrow at him. “You said that yesterday,” he says slowly, “when I was helping you with your panic attack.”

“Well it was nice of you,” Blaine reasons.

Kurt studies him for a moment. “You’re not used to people being nice to you, are you?”

Blaine’s shoulders fall and he looks away, uncomfortable. “No,” he says quietly, “not really.”

“ _Are_ you okay?” Kurt ventures tentatively.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I --” Blaine lifts his gaze again, eyes drifting to the name stitched on Kurt’s shirt. “Thank you for checking up on me, Officer Hummel. You really didn’t have to --”

“I... didn’t help you or come here today because it’s my job, Blaine,” Kurt says carefully. “I did it because I knew how you felt and I just -- I wanted to help. I got panic attacks after my mom died.”

A warmth blooms in Blaine’s chest. “I’m mildly lactose intolerant,” he says quietly. “But other than that, no allergies.”

“Noted,” Kurt says with a smile. There’s a lull for a moment, hanging in the air between them as they exchange a smile, before Kurt’s blush turns a little darker and he looks away, clearly gathering himself. “I, um, I should go,” he says, squaring his shoulders a little before he looks back up at Blaine. He carries himself well, Blaine notices, but there’s a tenderness in his expression that softens him around the edges. Blaine’s hand spasms against the door in an effort not to reach out and take Kurt’s hand. “But I’m really glad you’re okay. I’ll... see you around?” he says hopefully, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Blaine can’t bring himself to answer, but he manages a tight-lipped smile and an awkward wave before Kurt turns away and heads down the hallway. Blaine peers around the corner, watching him go, and only retreats back into the apartment when Kurt’s out of sight on the stairs. The door clicks shut behind him, and Blaine slumps against it, breathless. His hand still grips the handle, thrumming with a phantom electricity. He lifts his gaze to the kitchen island where his half put together meal is waiting for him, and his stomach growls -- loudly.

Hand tingling and suddenly wide awake, Blaine feels like he’s _starving_.

* * * * *


	3. December

** December **

_Sunday, 1 December 2019_

Blaine curls up on the couch and lets his steaming mug of decaffeinated tea warm his hands. He lifts the mug to his lips and closes his eyes, blowing on the liquid a little to cool it. He’s just about to take a sip when there’s a knock on the front door. Blaine pauses, lips close to the rim of his mug, and waits. Another knock and he opens his eyes, sighing. He knows who’s on the other side of his front door (or, at least he has a pretty good guess) and he doesn’t particularly want to answer it right now. The last two days have been a little... taxing. He just wants one day to himself.

A third knock and Blaine gives up, setting his mug on the table and pushing himself to his feet. He shuffles through the apartment to the kitchen and peers through the peephole. He just barely suppresses a sigh and unlocks the door. “Hi, Mom,” he sighs tiredly, stepping aside to let her in. “Dad.” The door clicks shut as he closes it behind them, and he follows them into the living room.

His mother spins on a perfectly polished heel halfway across the living room and bends slightly before tugging Blaine into her arms. He lets out a disgruntled _oomph_ , arms awkwardly trapped at his sides. “Oh sweetheart,” she says quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, squirming a little. “Mom, let go.”

She does, though she seems reluctant to do so. Blaine’s eyes drift to her accessories, intent on not meeting her piercing gaze. Her gloves are folded over her purse, which matches her shoes, and there’s a string of pearls around her neck and her wedding ring is gold and glittering. “I’m sorry we didn’t come sooner,” she says, hands twisting nervously inside one another. “We could only get a flight back this morning, and your brother was -- we had to explain some things to him.”

“I’m sure you did,” Blaine says dryly, moving past her to drop back onto his seat on the couch. He reaches for his mug and takes a sip. He glances over at his father, who still hasn’t said a word.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” his mother checks, sinking down onto the armchair. “I just wanted to make sure -- I know you don’t see your therapist until Tuesday.”

“I’m _fine_ , Mom,” Blaine says again, slightly more exasperated than before. “I’ve made it through two days without needing my therapist.”

“Alright,” she says slowly, tucking one leg behind the other. “Have you heard from your brother at all? I -- I know he tried to stop by, after we talked to him the first time, but --”

“No,” Blaine says thinly, setting his mug back down. “I haven’t.”

“I thought not,” his mother sighs. “He caught a flight this morning -- he starts filming in Montreal for his new film this week. Maybe you could --”

“No.”

“I’m not asking you to chase after him,” his mother says dryly. “I’m just asking you call him.”

“No,” Blaine says again.

“I don’t understand why you won’t just --”

“Why did you really come, Mom?” he asks, finally meeting her eyes. “Did you really come to check on me and make sure I’m okay, or did you come to get me to make Cooper feel better about making me have a panic attack?”

“I _did_ come to check on you,” she defends. “I’m just -- I know your relationship with your brother hasn’t always been easy, but --”

“Oh my god, please, _please_ do not try to be my therapist right now,” Blaine snaps. “And stop _smothering_ me.”

Legs untucked, hands gripping her knees and god, Blaine really is his mother’s son. “I’m smothering you?” she echoes, eyes widened.

“Yes,” Blaine groans, exasperated. “I don’t need you to come and check up on me or try to fix my problems. I’m not a child anymore, Mom. I’m almost twenty-five.”

His mother blinks rapidly at him, and even if his words reach her, he knows she won’t give up that easily. “Cooper took you outside,” she says simply.

“Yes,” Blaine sighs, “and that’s between me and Cooper. Look, Mom, I just -- I need _space_ , okay, especially after the last couple of days. This is the only space I have and you’re...” He pauses and gestures around the room before settling his gaze on her. “In it.”

His mother is _quiet_ , which is a rarity, and she’s quiet long enough to make Blaine uncomfortable. And when she does speak, it’s doesn’t make him feel any better. “Alright,” she says, smoothing out her skirt in an attempt to distract herself. “I suppose that means you’d rather we weren’t here for your birthday or Christmas this year.” She pushes herself to her feet, purse clutched tightly in her hand, eyes trained over Blaine’s head, deliberately not looking at him. “Well,” she says, too-loud and clearly flustered, “William, I will... meet you in the lobby.”

“Mom,” Blaine sighs plaintively, twisting a little on the couch. “Mom, that’s not --” He reaches out a hand, grabbing for hers in an attempt to stop her from leaving. And she lets him, for a moment, but only just long enough so that she can squeeze his hand tightly before letting go. The front door clicks shut again, sharp and echoing. Blaine rubs his hands over his face before glancing over at his father. “You know that’s not what I meant, right?”

“I know,” his father says gently. A pause, and then, “ _Are_ you alright?”

Blaine nods. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just --” He looks down at his lap, hands clasped between his knees. “I’m a little rattled, but, you know.” His turn to pause, and he brings one hand up to rest over his abdomen. “I’m still breathing.”

“Okay,” his father says agreeably. Blaine finds himself grateful that his father isn’t pressing the matter, and together, they sit in silence for a few moments. “I should probably get going.”

Blaine’s face twists into a little bit of a scowl, annoyed. “I thought you came to check on me.”

“I did,” his father says. “And I have. Look, Blaine,” his father sighs, turning to face him, “I know that this hasn’t always been... easy between us. But I know you better than you think I do, and I know that if something was _really_ wrong, you’d talk to us about it. And honestly? I’m more worried about your mother than you right now.”

Blaine glares at him. “Are you trying to guilt-trip me into going downstairs and apologizing to her?”

“No.” His father rubs his fingers over his temple and sighs, looking older than Blaine remembers. “You are... changing as a person, Blaine, which hasn’t really happened in a big way in a very, very long time. I don’t think she quite knows how to handle it.”

“That’s not new,” Blaine says dryly.

“That’s sort of my point,” his father says gently. “You need space, Blaine. She needs time to adjust to that.”

Blaine sighs and reclines back, resting his head against the back of the couch. “Okay, can you just -- I didn’t mean that I didn’t want her here for Christmas or -- or my birthday or anything like that. Can you make sure she knows that?”

“I’ll try.” His father rises from the couch and buttons his jacket, offering Blaine the smallest of smiles. “Enjoy your space, Blaine. I know Cooper can fill an entire room.”

His father claps a hand on Blaine’s shoulder on his way out, and Blaine waves distractedly over his shoulder. “Hey, Dad, there’s, um, there’s a few slices of leftover apple pie from Thursday in some tupperware in the fridge, if you want to take them home.”

“Thanks.” A pause, and then, “Don’t tell your brother, but that pie is the reason you’re my favorite.”

Blaine snorts. “Bye, Dad.”

“You know,” his father says casually, voice trailing through the apartment as he moves into the kitchen, “if you just gave me the recipe --”

“I’m not telling you the secret ingredient, Dad.”

“You can’t blame me for trying!” his father calls back, and the front door clicks shut behind him as he leaves.

Blaine reaches for his mug again and curls back up on the couch, fingers curling unhappily around the now lukewarm ceramic.

Change.

It’s strange to hear his father describe it that way. It’s not that he wants things to stay the same, that he always wants to be the same person. But he’d hardly classify mixed feelings about an upcoming reunion, a jarring experience in the outside world, a police officer who took an interest, and a desire not to have his parents smother him as change. He’s not sure what he’d classify it as, honestly, but he wouldn’t call it change. Then again, he’s never given a whole lot of thought to the reunion before, and giving thought to it now has caused tension between him and his family. Being outside _was_ kind of a big deal and he hasn’t really dealt with it yet, and Kurt --

Blaine’s hand thrums with electricity at the thought of his savior in blue. Kurt isn’t what Blaine had expected to find outside. Kurt isn’t like the people who’d played a part in driving Blaine inside. Kurt is tentative and kind, helpful and thoughtful. Kurt is -- was an anchor when Blaine had felt adrift, an electric charge keeping him going when he’d been too afraid to put one foot in front of the other.

Kurt is change.

And if Kurt is change, if Blaine recognizes that Kurt is change, then maybe -- maybe that means that the world isn’t composed of the same things, the same people as it was when Blaine had filed away his impression. And if he realizes that, then maybe his perception is changing. Maybe _he_ is changing.

Maybe.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 18 December 2019_

Blaine adjusts his grip on his piping bag and pokes his tongue out, concentrating. Frosting and decorating is easily the harder part of baking for him, but being able to focus calms his anxiety. He leans over his array of cookies and starts to make his letters -- _I, a, m, s_ \-- before he’s startled out of making an _o_ by a knock on the door. His heart leaps in his chest with hope -- he can’t help it -- but the hope is immediately replaced with apprehension. His fingers flex against the bag in his hand, hesitating, before he decides to let go. He wipes his hands off quickly on a dish towel before tossing it over his shoulder and doesn’t bother taking off his apron before he answers the door.

The sight that greets him -- a bouquet of gladiolus -- makes him relax and feel warm all the way down to his toes. “Mom.”

“No,” a voice says slowly, and oh, that’s definitely not his mom. The bouquet gets shifted to the side to reveal Kurt’s inquisitive and amused expression. “Were you expecting her?”

“Kurt,” Blaine breathes, mouth twisting into a smile that’s both genuine and forced. “Hi, um -- no, I wasn’t -- I mean, I was, sort of, but --” He closes his eyes and huffs out a breath, willing himself not to be so flustered. And when he opens his eyes again, the array of pink and white in Kurt’s arms draws his attention. “You brought me flowers.”

A blush makes its way onto Kurt’s cheeks, but he doesn’t drop his gaze and merely shrugs instead. “I figured they were the safer option.”

“I didn’t expect -- thank you,” Blaine says politely, pieces clicking back into place. “This is --”

“-- really nice of me,” Kurt laughs. “You’re welcome.”

Blaine bites back a smile and reaches out to take the bouquet from Kurt. “Um, come in. Let me just put these in water.” Kurt follows him inside, shutting the door as Blaine digs around for one of his vases. They’re quiet as Blaine fills the vase with water and trims the stems. He looks up in the midst of arranging the flowers and catches Kurt’s eye. Kurt’s standing next to the island, surveying the array of cookies, and several things occur to Blaine all at once. Kurt’s not in uniform this time; he’s bundled up in a fashionable winter coat and a red and grey striped scarf instead, hands tucked into his pockets. And it occurs to Blaine, then, that this is the first time he’s had someone new in this apartment since just after he moved in. “I think I’m going to put these in the living room,” Blaine ventures, picking up the vase. “More sunlight, even if it is December.”

In the living room, Blaine sets the vase down on the corner table between the couch and the armchair, fingers ghosting over the petals reverently. It’s the first bouquet of flowers someone other than his mother has given him, and Blaine wants to keep them in sight from his usual perch at the piano bench. “So,” Kurt says brightly, startling Blaine a little, “does your mother send you flowers often?”

Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile, but he shakes his head. “No, usually just... on my birthday,” he finishes awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Kurt’s face betrays his surprise, but he takes the news in stride and says, “I’m going to take a wild guess and say those are your favorite.”

“They are,” Blaine admits.

“Well,” Kurt says, preening a little, “we can pretend that I meant for them to be birthday flowers. Did I... interrupt something?” he asks, gesturing at Blaine’s apron.

“Oh, no, I was just... baking,” Blaine says, dusting a little at the flour on his apron.

“Do you want some help?” Kurt offers. “You shouldn’t have to make your own sweets on your birthday.”

“I was almost finished,” Blaine tells him as they walk back into the kitchen. “And I wasn’t -- they’re for my mom. We got into an argument last week and I just... wanted to do something nice for her.”

“It sounds like you’re close,” Kurt says quietly, leaning against a counter.

“Kind of,” Blaine answers distractedly, reaching for the piping bag again. “It’s -- is there a reason you came?” he ventures, eyes trained on his creations. “Other than the flowers?”

“I wanted to see how you were,” Kurt admits. Blaine tenses a little at that, hand gripping the piping bag a little more tightly. “And I -- I haven’t really made friends outside of the workplace in a long time. I wasn’t really sure how to go about it, given how we met.”

Blaine relaxes his grip on the bag and looks up at Kurt, arching an eyebrow. “So you brought me flowers?” Kurt’s mouth twitches into a smile but he doesn’t say anything. “I, um, I don’t need any help with the rest of these,” Blaine says, setting the piping bag down. “But I don’t think my parents are coming for dinner if --” He grips the edge of the kitchen island to anchor himself and rocks on the balls of his feet, trying not to let himself get too anxious. “Would you like to stay?”

Kurt’s whole face splits with his smile, bright and toothy and there’s the twist of arousal in Blaine’s gut again. It’s not -- it doesn’t feel wrong, not to him, but remembering the last time he’d felt like this makes him anxious. Blaine focuses on cleaning up his mess and packaging the cookies for his mother just to keep his hands busy. “That’s very nice of you,” Kurt teases, tugging off his scarf. “It sounds better than the coffee I was going to buy you.”

“I can make you some, if you’d like,” Blaine offers as Kurt takes off his coat and hangs it on a hook. “I only have decaf, but if you’re looking for a little pick-me-up, I did make some peanut butter cookies earlier that we can have for dessert after dinner.”

Kurt props his elbows on the island and leans forward, eyes glittering. “You do realize that you’re an adult?” Kurt says dryly. “Your mother is not actually here and it _is_ your birthday. You can eat one before dinner.” Blaine glances down at the island demurely, unable to fight back a smile. Another knock at the door has him blinking up again though, smile faltering. Kurt glances over his shoulder at the door. “If _that’s_ your mother --” Blaine stumbles to the door and wrenches it open before Kurt can finish the thought.

It’s not his mother.

It is, however, a young girl with red, braided hair who works for _Bloomability_ , and she’s carrying a pot with gladiolus in it, white with pink around the edges. Blaine knows without asking or reading the card who they’re from, and it’s with pursed lips and a shaking hand that he signs for them and digs around in his pocket for his wallet to tip the girl. He takes the pot from her and quietly shuts the door after her, setting the pot down on the island before reaching for the card. The handwriting is unfamiliar -- he’s sure that someone who works at the flower shop wrote it -- but he knows with a sinking heart who they’re from, and opening the card doesn’t make him feel any better.

_Happy Birthday, sweetheart. I hope these fill up the space you’ve needed. -- Mom_

Blaine drops the card onto the island and closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. He gets his stubborn streak from his mother, he knows that, but this isn’t just ridiculous anymore. It -- it hurts, in ways he doesn’t particularly want to admit, and he doesn’t know how to _fix it_ short of leaving his apartment and showing up on her doorstep. Still, she sent him the flowers even if she didn’t accompany them. Maybe a batch of his _I’m Sorry_ cookies will be enough in return to start a better dialogue.

“I take it _those_ are from your mother,” Kurt ventures timidly.

“Yeah,” Blaine says quietly, gripping the edge of the island tightly. “We’ve never had a figh -- a disagr -- a misunderstanding go on this long before. She normally brings the flowers herself on my birthday, and this year is just... different,” he sighs. “It’s change.”

“Change isn’t always necessarily a bad thing,” Kurt offers. Blaine opens his eyes and looks back up at him, eyes surveying Kurt’s long, lean frame as he leans against the counter. “I see a lot of really... awful, painful things in my line of work. Seeing change for the better -- watching people help each other instead of hurt each other? It brings balance. It makes the rest of it a little easier to bear.” Blaine’s grip on the edge of the island relaxes a little, and it must show, because Kurt pushes away from the counter and picks the pot up in his hands. “Where would you like these?”

Blaine’s mouth lifts into a smile. “The dining room.”

Blaine follows him into the dining room, watching as Kurt places the pot directly in the center of the table, before following him further into the living room again. Neither of them speak for a few moments, and Blaine continues his study of Kurt as Kurt continues his study of the room. Blaine watches as Kurt peruses the room, fingertips dancing over the surfaces of Blaine’s desk and bookshelves.

Kurt pauses at the baby grand, a faint smile appearing on his face, and his fingertips ghost over the keys before making the lightest of contact. And there it is again, the ghost of a jolt of electricity, at the tips of Blaine’s fingers and all the way up through his arm. “Have you written anything new recently?”

“Um, no,” Blaine admits. “I’ve been kind of... blocked these last few weeks,” he explains, waving his hand distractedly. “It’s like every time I sit down at the bench to try and work on something, I stall out. My fingers freeze up and the only way I can get them working again is if I play something familiar, something that I already know, something that makes me feel comfortable.”

Kurt tilts his head to the side and surveys him curiously. “You don’t... do well with change, do you?”

“No,” Blaine says quietly, shifting uncomfortably. “Not really. But I’m starting to realize that it might just be unavoidable.”

“Well,” Kurt sighs reasonably, fingers tickling the ivories again, “I’m change, and you seem to be doing pretty well with me.”

Blaine blushes a little at that, he can’t help it, and he feels the warm spread through his bones, around his ribs and down to his toes. “Yeah, you are.”

Kurt is change.

And change... may not be such a bad thing. Blaine’s had so little of it over the last ten years that any at all is jarring, uncomfortable, and difficult. But change is happening whether he likes it or not. It’s in the way he experiences things, in the way he’d zoned in on meaningless details when Cooper took him outside. It’s in the hand Kurt had offered him in the bathroom, the hand that wouldn’t let go, the hand that didn’t hurt him. It’s in the space he felt like he needed to breathe, in the space he’s occupied alone and the space he has to fill now. It’s in his words and actions and perceptions, and at some point, it’s going to be reflected in his music.

Change is inhabiting his living space, and it makes him feel uncomfortable, like he’s a stranger in his own skin. He remembers the way he’s felt walking home from the bar that afternoon, Kurt’s hand in his, remembers how lost he’d felt, how he didn’t recognize himself. Whoever Blaine was prior to that day doesn’t exist anymore, not in the exact same fashion, and he feels like a snake that’s shed its skin, leaving something old and dead and heavy behind.

Maybe who he’s becoming -- whoever, whatever it is -- isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe change is good. It hasn’t been easy or comfortable thus far -- and he doubts it ever will be just that -- but Blaine finds that he’s liking the rewards that come with the risks he’s taken so far.

He smiles at Kurt and nods in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want to get started on dinner?”

“Sure,” Kurt says warmly. “Are we having your favorite?”

“Um, I’m not sure, honestly,” Blaine laughs, feeling his face grow a little warm. “I hadn’t quite decided yet.” He bites his lip hopefully. “I could use some help with that.”

Another beaming smile. “I’d love to.” Kurt starts to cross the room, headed back toward the kitchen, and takes up Blaine’s hand in his along the way, towing him along. The contact is brief, ten seconds at the most, but Blaine feels the shocks all the way up and down his spine and notices a change in the current.

In Blaine’s apartment, two arrangements of gladiolus fill the space, and in the dead of winter, something new begins to bloom.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 25 December 2019_

Blaine opens his door at half past four on Christmas afternoon to a snow-covered, slightly red-nosed Kurt, still in uniform, thick jacket wrapped snugly around him. “Happy Holidays?” Kurt ventures, offering him a tentative smile.

Blaine leans against the door frame and returns the smile, bemused. “I thought you didn’t work on Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

“I don’t -- thanks,” Kurt says, shuffling inside as Blaine steps aside to let him in. “One of the rookies was scheduled to work today and it’s his kid’s first Christmas, so I offered to switch.” He glances over at Blaine as he shrugs his jacket off. “What?”

“I’m trying to figure out how you got anything good out of that deal,” Blaine admits. “You had to work and then you came over after your shift to spend the holiday with me.”

Kurt’s smile falters a little, but it’s back in place as he hangs his jacket on one of the hooks on the wall. “I like helping people,” he says with a shrug. “And contrary to what you may think,” he adds, tugging off his gloves, “spending Christmas with you is not a bad thing.”

“You say that now,” Blaine sighs, turning his attention to his oven as the timer on the counter goes off. “We’ve only really been friends for a week and you have yet to taste my butchered duck.”

“You made duck?” Kurt asks, sounding impressed.

“ _Butchered_ duck,” Blaine corrects. “I can never seem to get it right.”

“Well we won’t know that until we eat it,” Kurt says agreeably. “Were you... expecting company? God, I just invited myself over for Christmas dinner, I am so _bad_ at this.”

“If you’re bad at this, I don’t want to think about what I am,” Blaine laughs. “Plates are in the cabinet behind you, and no, I wasn’t expecting any company.”

Kurt sets the plates down on the counter with a quiet _click_. “Still haven’t made up with your mom?” he pries gently.

Blaine shakes his head, eyes trained on the duck he’s trying to cut into. “I normally spend Christmas with my parents,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I told her I wanted space and she kind of took it the wrong way.”

“Am I here because I fill the space?” Kurt asks bluntly.

Blaine blinks over at him and sets the fork and knife down, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “No,” he says sincerely. “You’re here because you show up unannounced at my front door and unintentionally invite yourself over for dinner.” Kurt breaks out into a grin but doesn’t comment or question further. They fill their plates with the array of food Blaine’s prepared and pour two glasses of sparkling cider in accompaniment. Blaine hovers in the kitchen, balancing his plate and glass and napkin and cutlery. “We normally eat in the dining room, but since it’s just the two of us, do you want to eat in the living room instead? We can use the coffee table and put on a movie or something.”

“Casual Christmas, I like it,” Kurt teases, balancing his own plate. “After you.”

They settle in comfortably in the living room, napkins spread across their laps. Blaine finds a film on HBO that looks mildly interesting, a semi-recent Brad Pitt piece from a year or two ago that Blaine’s noticed while channel-surfing but has never actually seen. Kurt doesn’t seem to care about the choice, and they eat and watch in silence for a while. The duck isn’t perfect -- it never is, much to Blaine’s disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I wish I could figure out the secret to good duck.”

Kurt nudges Blaine’s leg companionably with his own and sets his cutlery on top of his empty plate. “In all fairness, you did warn me. But stop worrying about it. The duck is fine.”

“Fine isn’t good,” Blaine argues, pushing his own empty plate away.

Kurt rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He stretches his legs out on the chaise and folds his hands over his abdomen. “You know,” he muses, gesturing toward the screen, “objectively, I can appreciate the fact that Brad Pitt has aged well. He looks good for fifty-six. He’s like George Clooney, or --”

“-- Robert Downey Jr.,” Blaine offers. “Or --”

“Richard Gere,” they chorus in unison.

Kurt grins at him, a slight blush tinging his cheeks before he turns his attention to the screen. “He’s not really my type, though. I was always more of a fan of the Taylor Lautner variety.”

“So... werewolves?” Blaine quips.

Kurt hits him with a throw pillow. “The rest of the world has moved on from _Twilight_ , Blaine,” he says dryly. Blaine grins back but doesn’t comment further. “So what’s _your_ type, then?”

Blaine shifts his gaze back to the screen and squirms, a little uncomfortable but not enough not to answer. “I was always into Heath Ledger,” he admits, feeling his stomach twist a little. “Circa _10 Things I Hate About You_ or _A Knight’s Tale_.”

“The whole face paint and sociopath thing didn’t really do it for you, then?” Kurt guesses, clearly teasing him.

“As amazing as he was in that role, no,” Blaine laughs.

“Well,” Kurt sighs dramatically, flexing his socked toes comfortably, “it’s a good thing I never had any desire to cover up scars or any aspirations to go to clown college.”

Blaine tries -- and fails -- to fight back the smile that twists and blooms onto his face at the comment. It’s just ambiguous enough not to be construed as flirting. Blaine feels the tension in his stomach start to uncoil. It’s... surprisingly easy to be around Kurt, even if their friendship is only just beginning. Kurt seems to know where the lines are that he shouldn’t cross, when it’s best to back off and not pry further. And he’s -- he’s clearly comfortable around Blaine even if he’s a little flustered about his supposed mishaps. He’s relaxed, which allows Blaine to not be anxious for a change. Blaine hasn’t had anyone to be like this with in a very long time, someone who will tease and laugh and joke. Blaine feels more like himself than he has in a very, very long time.

Kurt shivers slightly. “You’re cold,” Blaine observes stupidly. “Do you want me to turn the heat up?”

Kurt shakes his head. “It’s okay. I don’t want you to be too warm and I don’t want to hike up your bill. I’ll probably just put my jacket back on.”

“You’ll be uncomfortable,” Blaine argues. “Come with me. I have some extra blankets in the closet.”

In the bedroom, Blaine has to move a couple of boxes out of the way to get to the blankets. He stands on tiptoe to get to them on the shelf above the rack and accidentally brings two down instead of the one he’d been searching for. He turns around to find Kurt reading the side of one of the boxes. “Photography equipment?” he asks, eyes flicking up to look at Blaine.

“Oh,” Blaine says, caught off guard. He moves back to the foot of the bed, handing the blankets off to Kurt before kneeling down next to the box. “I, uh, I used to be really into photography when I was a kid. My dad and I would take pictures with these older cameras and develop all of the film in the guest bathroom.”

“You used to,” Kurt echoes. “You don’t anymore?”

“Um, no, not really,” Blaine answers, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I don’t really... have the opportunity.” Again, he chooses his words carefully. It’s not an outright lie, but it’s the most vague, twisted version of the truth there is, and it’s the only version Blaine feels comfortable enough telling Kurt. “My dad -- he buys me a new roll of film every year for my birthday just in case I decide to pick it up again.” He shakes his head at that, fingers tracing the words marked in black sharpie across the side of the box. In much the same way that his mother drops hints about things like family reunions and Cooper’s work travels, the gift from Blaine’s father is an awkward, thinly veiled nudge in the direction of the outside world. It’s less blatant than his mother’s attempts, to be sure, but it’s still an attempt, nonetheless. And unlike his mother’s attempts, the attempts by his father have been collecting dust and losing function over the years. Blaine pries open the box and unearths his favorite old camera, blowing on it a little before he starts to examine it. “I wonder if it even works anymore.”

“Only one way to find out.” Blaine looks up at him, and Kurt holds out a hand, eyebrows raised almost expectantly. “May I?”

Blaine hesitates for a moment before moving to place it gently in Kurt’s hands. “Sure, just -- be careful. It’s old and fragile. I don’t want it to break.”

“It’s safe with me,” Kurt assures him. “I promise. Where’s the new roll of film?”

“Uh, in the living room, on my desk,” Blaine answers distractedly, pushing himself to his feet and collecting the blankets for Kurt. “I haven’t put it away with the rest of the equipment yet. I don’t even think I have all the necessary tools to develop film right now.”

He follows Kurt back out into the living room, setting the blankets on the top of the couch before joining Kurt over at his desk. Kurt has set the camera down gently on the tabletop and picked up the canister of film, rolling it in his hand. He turns slightly, angling his body in Blaine’s direction, and holds out the canister. “Show me?” he requests softly, looking up at Blaine beneath his eyelashes.

Okay, so that’s a little closer to blatant flirting.

Still, Blaine tries to keep calm and play his cards close to his chest. Wordlessly, he reaches out to take the canister from Kurt, fingertips brushing against each other during the exchange. The electric charge is still there, sparking between them, but Blaine almost expects it, now. It’s kind of comforting, actually, to have a somewhat regular form of contact that keeps him on his toes in a good way. Kurt watches in silence as Blaine loads the film into the camera. When he’s finished, Blaine sets the camera back in Kurt’s hands, feeling the care Kurt takes in cradling the weight in his hands.

Blaine really should try to not fall so hard for the first friend he’s made in years.

He tries to show Kurt how to use the camera rather than tell, heart skipping a beat with every brush of hands. The camera goes off unexpectedly, a flash of light flooding the room, and Blaine stumbles back a little, blinking rapidly and laughing. “We’ll call that one a practice shot.” The sound of another flash and Blaine opens his eyes, smile faltering a little when he sees the lense of the camera pointed at him. “Oh,” he says faintly. “I didn’t realize you’d be taking pictures of me.”

Kurt lowers the camera, a warm smile spread across his face. “I hope that one turns out.”

Blaine’s mouth twitches in an attempt to smile. “Are you finished?” he asks, holding out a hand uncomfortably.

Kurt’s smile dims a little, but he hands the camera over without protest. “For now,” he teases. They make their way back over to the couch. Kurt settles in comfortably, draping one of the blankets Blaine had retrieved for him over his lap and resting his head against the back of the couch. Blaine sits down next to him, though not quite as close as before, and keeps his eyes trained on the antique camera in his hand. “Do you think you’ll pick it up again?”

Blaine runs his thumb over the back of the camera, contemplating for a moment, before twisting to face Kurt a little. He gives Kurt a once-over, takes in his position and comfort and lazy smile. Kurt is -- hopefully -- becoming a part of Blaine’s world. But he’s also part of the world beyond the six walls Blaine keeps himself boxed in. And Kurt is -- Kurt is change. Kurt is good. Kurt is helpful and kind. And because he is all of those things, all of those things exist in both realms, bridging the gap between them. In a word full of so many ugly things, Kurt is beautiful. And in a world that Blaine has always thought sees him as ugly, Kurt looks at him like he’s anything but.

Blaine lifts the camera, and the flash of light helps etch Kurt’s likeness into film. Kurt closes his eyes and turns into the back of the couch, hiding his face, suddenly bashful.

“Maybe,” Blaine says quietly. “Maybe.”

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 31 December 2019_

Blaine doesn’t give Tracie time to settle in before he starts his therapeutic hour. “I went outside.”

Tracie blinks up at him from where she’s settling into the armchair comfortably, surprise evident on her face. “When?” she asks slowly.

“The day after Thanksgiving,” Blaine says, smoothing his palms over the tops of his pants.

“That was over a month ago,” Tracie says gently. “Why are you telling me about it now?”

“I just... kind of wanted to forget it happened,” Blaine admits quietly. “I didn’t really want to deal with it.”

“Did you go outside by choice?” she prompts.

Blaine shakes his head. “Cooper dragged me out. And he didn’t -- he didn’t know, but that doesn’t excuse what he did, no matter what my mother thinks, and I had a panic attack and had to ask for help getting home and --”

“Slow down,” Tracie instructs, hand flexing on the arm of the chair. “Breathe. Start at the beginning.”

In, out. “Cooper came over,” Blaine starts over. “He’d decided to take me out as some sort of... I don’t know, brotherly bonding experience or something. He had me by the arm. He wouldn’t let me go. He dragged me to this bar or club or something and left to go get drinks.”

“So your brother doesn’t know that you haven’t been outside in ten years other than the day you moved into this apartment, and he doesn’t know that you can’t drink alcohol because it mixes with your meds, which probably means he doesn’t even know that you’re on meds or why you’re on them to begin with,” Tracie guesses, trying to fill in the gaps.

“He knows about Sadie Hawkins,” Blaine says weakly. “Just... not about the aftermath.”

“Was that intentional?”

“No?” Blaine sighs, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I never told him because I don’t like to talk about it, and my parents -- you know what my parents are like. Everything’s been difficult for them. They don’t know how to handle it or talk about it. So they just... don’t.”

“Take me back to the bar,” Tracie prompts. “Cooper left to get drinks. Then what happened?”

“I had a panic attack,” Blaine continues, tucking his legs up onto the couch against his chest. “And the thought of going outside again, by myself, was just... terrifying. So I found the bathroom and just... hid.”

“So how did you get home?”

“Someone walked in, eventually,” he explains. “And he knew how to handle a panic attack and walked me home.”

“Were you alright, eventually?” Tracie checks kindly.

“Eventually,” Blaine sighs, unfurling from his position and letting his feet touch the floor. “Cooper came back to try and apologize and my parents -- well, my mom, really -- tried making excuses for him and I just -- I felt smothered. Does that make sense?” he asks, frustrated.

“It does,” Tracie assures him. “So things are tense with your family now. What about you? Have you been outside since? Do you even want to?”

“I haven’t been outside since, and I just -- I don’t know,” Blaine answers honestly. “I -- I don’t want to be fighting with my mom, but she took the whole ‘give me space’ thing kind of hard, and then Kurt kept coming back and I --”

“Kurt?”

Blaine blinks over at her in surprise. “Oh,” he says, faltering a little. “Um, Kurt -- he’s the guy who found me in the middle of my panic attack. He ended up coming back the next day to check on me.”

“Really?” Tracie asks, crossing her legs and settling back in the chair. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says faintly. “And he just... kept coming back? He brought me flowers and he’s stayed for dinner a few times and he was here over Christmas. We’re kind of... friends, I think?”

“Were you in the market for a friend?” she pries, a hint of teasing in her voice.

The corner of Blaine’s mouth twitches upward. “Not intentionally or anything, but it’s been... kind of nice,” he admits.

“So Kurt’s... important,” Tracie guesses.

Blaine shrugs awkwardly and looks down at his lap. “He’s been... really nice to me. I’m not really used to that. I’d forgotten what it was like. I’d forgotten that people could be like that.”

“Would it be safe to say that he’s changing your perception a little?” Tracie ventures.

Blaine reclines his head against the back of the couch. “He’s a cop, you know,” he says after a moment. “He worked Christmas because he wanted one of his co-workers to be there for his kid’s first Christmas. He said he did it because he likes helping people.”

“And you identified with that.”

Blaine closes his eyes, fingers twitching as he remembers the phantom jolt of Kurt’s hand in his. “There was this moment, when he was walking me home from the bar, that I just... didn’t recognize myself at all,” Blaine breathes, exhaling slowly to try and keep the tears at bay. “And he found my old photography equipment last week and I realized that the picture I have of the world and the people in it is kind of...”

“Out-of-date?” Tracie supplies helpfully.

“Yeah,” he agrees, nodding slightly. “And it’s not --” He opens his eyes and glances over in her direction, not quite able to look her in the eye. “It’s not like I want to be this way,” he breathes, agitated and eyes watering. “It’s not like I want to be on meds or have panic attacks or an anxiety disorder or -- or be too afraid to walk out the front door of this building.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, hands rubbing over his eyes. “It’s not like I wanted to spend an entire decade of my life being a _recluse_ , Tracie. I just -- I can’t help it. I don’t have any control over the way I feel or how I react to things and --”

“I know,” Tracie says gently. “You don’t have to explain or justify it to me. We’ve been through this. I know you want something different.”

“I _do_ ,” Blaine says helplessly, removing his hands from his eyes. “I can’t -- I can’t change or control the way the world sees me, but if I can change the way I see it? If I can help people -- whether it’s through my music or something else? But I can’t --” In, out. “I can’t help anyone if I can’t help myself.”

Tracie gives him a moment before asking, “Would you like some help with that?”

“Maybe,” he says faintly. “Maybe.”

* * * * *


	4. January

** January **

_Tuesday, 7 January 2020_

With two rather traumatic exceptions, Blaine has not been outside in ten years, three months, and eleven days.

Today, that changes.

He starts his morning a little earlier than necessary, setting his alarm for eight instead of nine. He takes his morning pill and makes breakfast this morning instead of just pouring a bowl of cereal or making toast. He takes out the ingredients for french toast first before deciding against it; he’s not sure how his nerves will hold out given his plans, and he doesn’t want to eat anything too heavy in case he feels like vomiting later. He opts for a vegetable medley omelet and a mug of tea and works his way through his breakfast slowly, toes curling anxiously around one of the rungs of his stool. He even takes the time to do his dishes as soon as he’s finished and brushes his teeth after that.

He tries to fill the time with as many productive activities as he can, desperate to distract himself enough to keep the anxiety at bay. A slightly longer shower, a careful, smooth shave, an extra five minutes on his hair and an extra ten to decide what he’s going to wear. He knows that he doesn’t have control over the way people perceive him, but he also knows that he can influence perception. He has control over the image he perpetuates, and with his history, he’s hoping to at least come across as neutrally as possible. Best case scenario, he leaves a good impression, but for the most part, he’s hoping to just... blend in. He pushes away the thought of passing and the conversations he’s had with Tracie about it in favor of rifling through his collection of blazers. He tries to think about the different components of his wardrobe and which pieces would go best together to create his most responsible looking ensemble.

His fingers freeze over a navy blue blazer.

Oh _god_.

He’s Alicia Silverstone. He’s Alicia Silverstone in _Clueless_. What is _wrong_ with him?

He takes the navy blue blazer into numb fingers and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, thumb running over the lapel. He wishes he could laugh, he’s being so _ridiculous_ , but... he’s not. He’s nervous and just shy of anxious and he has control and responsibility and it terrifies him. Eyes clenched shut, he makes a fist around the material in his hand before pushing himself to his feet. He slips into his blazer and pulls on a warmer coat over it, tying a scarf around his neck before slipping his hands into gloves. It’s snowing again, not heavily, but enough that he knows it’ll be too cold to wear just the blazer. If nothing else, the weather will give him a time limit to his... experiment.

Keys and phone in one pocket, prescription bottle in the other, and Blaine steps out into the hallway outside of his apartment. Down the hall to the stairs, down the stairs to the lobby, past the mailboxes and... _just_ shy of the door. Blaine slows and pauses about ten feet away from the door, chest feeling a little tight.

“Mr. Anderson?” Blaine blinks over at Porter, who’s surveying him curiously. “Will you be... going out?”

Blaine inhales, long and deep and sharp, before exhaling slowly, flexing his fingers. “That’s the plan.”

Porter’s expression betrays his confusion, however polite it may be, but Blaine doesn’t want to be distracted from his goal. Porter reaches for the handle and pulls open the door, wincing a little at the gale of wind that blows inside. And Blaine instantly defaults to the polite, well-mannered gentleman his parents raised. He can’t bear the thought of letting Porter get cold holding the door open for him, so Blaine puts one foot in front of the other with all haste and stops five feet outside of the door.

Outside.

He stands there for a moment, shivering a little in the cold and watching the snow gather on his coat, before he realizes that he’s still sort of standing in the way of anyone trying to get in and out of the building. Wildly, he looks around the front of the building, panic starting to settle in, until he notices a bench just to his left. He’d forgotten, again, that it was there, and he immediately makes a beeline for it. He can do this. He just needs an anchor.

He settles down onto the wooden bench, palms flat against his thighs, and breathes.

Outside.

He tries to focus on the details, one at a time so that he doesn’t feel overwhelmed. And it’s easy because the details are sparse. There’s hardly anyone out, which means there’s less to pull his focus. There are a few cars out, and more than a few taxis, but there are even less people out, the cold apparently a deterrent from the crowds he normally hears from his balcony. He feels... lucky, ironically enough, that he picked a day where the environment would be less full of potential triggers for his anxiety. This isn’t that different from observing from his balcony or inside the lobby. He can sit and take note of how the world has changed.

No one comes up to him while he sits, long moment after long moment, and in the cold, Blaine breathes.

“Blaine?”

Blaine blinks up, snow on his eyelashes blurring his vision a little. His whole face feels cold, but a warmth blooms in his chest at the sight that greets him. “Tracie.” He takes a moment to really look at her, hair peeking out from beneath a knit cap, face tinged pink from the cold, eyes warm and expressive and a little concerned. “Is it almost eleven already?”

She nods slowly. “How long have you been out here?”

Blaine takes a breath and looks around him, thinking. “A half hour, I think?”

“And you’ve just been... sitting here?” Tracie guesses.

Blaine nods. “Yeah.”

“You look cold,” she offers.

“A little,” Blaine admits.

“Why don’t we go back inside?” she suggests, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “We can make some tea or coffee or something before your session.”

Tracie holds out her hand, and Blaine takes it.

Porter looks a little confused when Blaine makes his way back inside with Tracie in tow, but he doesn’t comment. Together, Blaine and Tracie make their way back upstairs, hands clasped between them. Once the door clicks shut behind them, he feels safe enough to let go of her hand, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. They’re all business for a few moments, discarding coats and jackets and scarves and gloves before putting the tea kettle on the stove. All in all, it’s about ten minutes before they’re settled into their spots in the living room, hands wrapped around warm mugs, and as Blaine starts to thaw, he can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Do you need a few more minutes?” Tracie offers kindly. Blaine shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea. “How are you doing? Do you think you’ll need one?” she asks, nodding toward the prescription bottle on the coffee table. Again, Blaine shakes his head and takes another sip. “So you’re okay,” she surmises.

Blaine sets his mug down on the coffee table before leaning back against the couch. “Yeah,” he answers slowly. “I think I am.”

With a sigh that sounds kind of relieved, if Blaine’s being honest, Tracie sinks into the armchair and gives him a once-over. “Where would you like to start?” Blaine’s mouth twitches in an effort not to smile, and Tracie actually laughs at him. “You were going to break out into song, weren’t you?”

“You gave me the opening,” Blaine defends. “It was right there.”

“Okay, let me ask some questions to get you started,” she suggests. “Was this planned?”

Blaine nods. “After our session last week, I decided that I wanted -- I wanted to at least _try_. So I made -- and I realize how unbelievably cheesy this sounds -- a New Year’s resolution.”

“To go outside?”

“To try,” Blaine says. “And to keep trying. And not to let one experience, whether it’s good or bad, dictate the rest of the choices I make.”

“So why today?” Tracie prompts.

Blaine smiles sheepishly over at her. “I knew you were coming,” he admits softly. “I figured if I timed it well enough, I could meet you outside. I thought -- I just thought it’d be better that way, that I’d feel safer, that I’d be less likely to panic if I could just remember that you’d show up.”

There’s a spark in Tracie’s eyes, then, one Blaine’s never seen before. “Places don’t necessarily make you feel safe,” she says slowly. “People do.”

Blaine tries very hard not to laugh. “You’ve been my therapist for ten years and you’re just realizing this now?” Tracie arches an eyebrow at him. Blaine holds a hand up in defense. “Sorry, it’s just -- place wasn’t necessarily the important thing. It was the fact that I’d removed myself from the potential that people have. If I’m in a place where people can’t get to me, there’s less cause for anxiety.”

“You don’t interact with people very much,” she says. “And the majority of the people you have interacted with over the last decade are people you barely trust or are only somewhat comfortable around. And -- I’m sorry, Blaine, for how catty this is going to sound, but six or seven people isn’t really a good sample size, especially when you’ve known three of them your entire life.”

“Can we focus on something else?” Blaine asks, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t really want to argue with you.”

“Oh, no, that’s not -- I’m not trying to argue with you,” Tracie promises, softening a little. “I’m just... trying to make sense of it, same as you. This is kind of new territory for both of us.” She reaches for her mug, then, to take a drink of tea, and Blaine notices that she’s doing it to give herself a minute to regain her composure.

“Ask me about details,” Blaine says quickly, before he loses the thought.

“Details,” Tracie echoes. “Like what you saw? What you heard? Different things you noticed when you were outside today?”

Blaine nods. “It’s cold,” he says, knowing the statement is obvious. “People don’t like to come outside when it’s this cold.”

“No,” Tracie agrees, laughing a little. “They don’t.”

“I think I remember more from the last time,” Blaine says slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs.

“From when you were outside in November?” she clarifies.

Another nod. “I remember -- I remember a bicyclist,” he recalls. “I remember wondering if people who ride bikes in this city are a little crazy. My parents never let me ride a bike outside of a park or a sidewalk or pathway that wasn’t far away from a street.”

“Good,” Tracie encourages. “Use your experiences to identify with the things you saw.”

“I remember a woman,” he continues, speaking a little faster now. “Her hat hid her face, and I wondered if she was hiding from someone specific, or if she was hiding from everyone, like me.” He pauses and blinks over at her as he remembers. “There’s a flower bodega on the corner,” he says. “I think I’d like to go there. Not today or anything, but... soon, maybe. Once I feel comfortable going that far. I’d like to buy my mom some flowers, or Kurt, maybe. I’d like to return the favor.”

“So you’d like to go outside again?”

Blaine smiles, just a little, and exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he admits. “I would. But I might -- I need help with the follow-through.”

“So this doesn’t become a one-time thing,” Tracie concludes. “I can try to help you with that, if you want.”

“Please,” Blaine requests breathlessly.

“Tell me more about how this morning went,” she prompts. “What did you do before you went outside?”

Blaine exhales again, trying to gather his thoughts, and reaches for his mug to take another sip. “I did what I would normally do, I guess,” he says, shrugging. “I ate breakfast. I brushed my teeth. I took a shower. I did my hair. I got dressed. I took my meds.”

“Okay, so would it be safe to conclude that you do well if you have some sort of structure or sense of normalcy?”

Blaine nods. “Yeah, I -- I tried to be really methodical about it. I guess I felt like if I did the things I always do, if I made a sort of mental list and did everything in a certain order and made sure it was all done, it’d help me get out the door. I don’t know why, but --”

“I could hazard a guess,” Tracie says, clearly fighting back a smile. Blaine smiles behind the rim of his mug and takes another sip, nodding at her to give her permission to continue. “Think about your life the way that it is right now, outside of normal activities like eating and sleeping and hygiene. You see me every Tuesday, Blaine. That provides you with some semblance of structure and routine.”

Blaine looks down at his mug thoughtfully. “My parents come every other Sunday. Fridays are usually the only day I actually leave the apartment, even if it is just down the hall or downstairs.” He looks back up at her again, cogs whirring in his brain. “So you think I should make it some sort of routine,” he guesses. “Put it into my schedule regularly so it’s a commitment or a habit. Give it structure.”

The smile blooms across her face now, and she lifts her mug closer to her face, readying herself to take a sip. “Honestly, Blaine, sometimes I wonder if I serve any function at all when you say things like that.”

His turn to smile, now, and his whole chest twists and aches at the affection he feels for her. “I’d be lost without you,” he says softly. “I feel like -- I feel like going back outside is like heading into a minefield. I wouldn’t know where the mines were or how to avoid them if it weren’t for you.”

Tracie’s smile fades, and she shifts a little in the armchair, looking uncomfortable. “I can certainly be a guide, Blaine, and help you as much as I can, but at the end of the day, you’re the one who has to do it. And I can’t promise you that even with my help, that you won’t set off a mine or that something won’t blow up in your face. The thing you have to remember is that it doesn’t have to be debilitating. It can set back your progress, but it doesn’t necessarily erase it. And it’s okay if you get discouraged from time to time, but you don’t have to give up.”

Eyes back on his tea and Blaine sits quietly for a few moments. “The day that Cooper took me outside, I realized that I wasn’t alone,” he says. “And I don’t mean that I realized there were people outside of my apartment or anything. I -- having Kurt there in the middle of a panic attack was like having an anchor. I felt it when he offered to walk me home and when he gave me his name and when held my hand at the corner of an intersection.”

“Tell me more about your relationship with him,” Tracie encourages.

Blaine shifts on the couch, trying to get comfortable. “I, um -- I don’t --”

“You don’t have to if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s not that,” Blaine says, laughing a little. “I just -- I’m not sure I know what to say. He’s -- I like him. I’m comfortable around him. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel... normal, for lack of a better word.”

“Does he make you feel less anxious?” she asks.

“Most of the time,” he sighs. “Every once in awhile, I get flustered and awkward, or I start over-thinking what I say and do and that makes me anxious, thinking about how he’ll react to how I behave around him, but it’s been happening less and less. He’s --” Blaine sets his mug down on the coffee table again and sits up straight, shoulders squared and palms flat against his thighs. “I don’t want to make it sound like I decided I wanted to go outside again because of some guy,” he says firmly. “Kurt’s had an influence on my perception, but he’s not the reason I went outside this morning.”

“So what was?”

Blaine relaxes his shoulders a little. “I’ve never -- I’ve never felt bad for wanting the things I do. You helped with that, in some ways. But I can’t always get what I want. I can’t always just... will something to happen. And that’s okay, too, but...”

“But?” Tracie prompts.

“Kurt helps people. It’s what he does for a living.” In, out. “Do you remember when I told you about Cooper taking me outside, and how I felt like I didn’t recognize myself anymore?” Tracie nods. “I feel like part of who I am -- or part of who I was, at least -- is outside of this apartment. And I can’t help people unless I help myself, which means I... _have_ to go outside, Tracie.” Eyes closed, in, out, eyes open. “I did it for me. Because this is what _I_ want for myself. I want to be able to help myself, if I’m able. I want to be able to help others. I want a better perception. I want people to have a better perception of me, and that can only happen if I take the risk and go outside and interact with them, right?”

“There are other ways of interacting with people, but I understand your point,” she says. “Go on.”

“I want... _change_ , Tracie,” he sighs, suddenly tired and more than a than a little hungry. “And I know that’s not exactly new, and I’m still -- I’m still afraid of it, because I don’t know what to expect and I can’t always control everything, but I want change, Tracie. I want it so _badly_.” He drops his gaze down to his lap, hands spasming a little on his thighs. “I’ve always wanted it, but Kurt -- he made me want it _more_. He helped, but --”

“-- but he didn’t push you out the door,” Tracie finishes for him. “Does he give you some semblance of a sense of family like we talked about previously?”

Blaine looks back up at her then, and he can’t help smiling. “Yeah, he does.”

Tracie studies him for a moment. It almost makes Blaine a little uncomfortable, like she’s trying to deduce something from his silence. But she doesn’t comment further or ask any more questions about Kurt, and she distracts herself again, Blaine notices, with another sip of tea before she speaks. “You picked today out ahead of time,” she says, clearing her throat a little. “Did the anticipation make your anxiety worse?”

“I’m not sure,” Blaine answers honestly, a little jarred by the abrupt shift back to their original topic. “I tried not to psych myself out. I wasn’t completely successful at it. I _did_ get anxious, but not enough to keep me from following through. I guess I just... tried focusing on the task at hand, whatever it was.”

“Routine is what’s going to help you with the follow-through,” Tracie reminds him. “I would suggest this -- make a point to go outside every day, even if it’s just to the bench outside of the building, even if it’s for a half hour or just five minutes. It’s something you know you can do. If you make it part of your schedule, if you give it structure, it might help to ebb some of the anxiety that the anticipation gives you.”

“I think I can do that,” he answers.

A small smile out of her again, and Blaine feels like they’ve shifted back into their regular rhythm, all awkwardness gone. “I would also make a point to introduce something new into your life and schedule periodically. It doesn’t have to be every day. You could do it every other day, or once a week, or even once a month. Whatever you’re comfortable with. And when you’re comfortable enough with the bench outside, you can always try going a little farther -- the next building over, that flower bodega on the corner.” Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile again, and he reaches for his mug to keep himself from commenting. “You can take someone with you, if you want -- whatever you need to continue making progress. Trust yourself and your instincts, Blaine. Sometimes, you do know what you need best.” Blaine nods gratefully at her and tucks his legs up on the couch. “You were right, Blaine. You don’t need to be fixed. That’s not what change is about. Change is -- in its best form -- about betterment. Who you are isn’t wrong, but if you can make improvements on yourself and it’s something you want, that’s not a bad thing.”

And there it is again. Change isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s all around him and in him. It’s in the walls and the air he breathes, in the ivory keys he plays and the hand he holds. It’s like it’s settling onto his skin, just starting to permeate, waiting for Blaine to grow into it and become comfortable. Change has waited for him for ten years.

Blaine is done waiting.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 12 January 2020_

Blaine follows Tracie’s advice and makes a point of starting his days with a little bit of time outside so that his progress doesn’t become stunted. Mostly, he keeps to the bench just outside of his apartment building, and while it’s still a little exhilarating to be _outside_ and not overly anxious to the point where he has a panic attack, he’s glad that he’s getting a little desensitized to the world just outside of his building. He’s not sure if it counts as a drastic enough change to redefine his borders, but he’s trying to take baby steps. It has, after all, been ten years. Going outside is the first thing he does after showering and getting dressed. Tracie was right -- it _does_ provide structure for him, and he uses it as a guide to set the tone for the rest of his day. And while the primary mood tends to be cold (it is January in New York, after all), it also builds a sense of nervous anticipation that he can’t always distinguish from his anxiety. More often than not, the feeling makes his gut twist and coil, and it makes him skip, or at the very least put off breakfast. It means he’s eating a little less, now, which he’ll be sure to mention to Tracie on Tuesday, but he doesn’t think it’s anything to be concerned about.

By the time Sunday rolls around, Blaine settles in around eleven for a lonely but well-earned brunch. He shuffles listlessly through the kitchen, unsure what to make. It’s the first Sunday he’s been outside in a very, very long time, and -- well, he feels like celebrating it, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s the first Sunday that he’s followed through with his resolution, and with the accomplishment -- with change, with something new -- Blaine feels like keeping with the theme. Determined to do something new -- something he’s always wanted to do but didn’t, for whatever reason -- Blaine stands on tiptoe and pulls down an old, dusty cookbook given to him by his grandmother. He cleans the cover off first, making the outside cleaner and a little easier to handle, before flipping through the pages to find the recipe for crepes.

He’s just started to gather the ingredients he’ll need when there’s a knock on the door. He can’t help the twinge of apprehension he feels; it’s almost as if he’s conditioned to react this way by now. But with the anxiety comes a spark of hope that has rarely been there before, and even though it’s a Sunday, Blaine genuinely has no idea who is on the other side of that door.

Blaine opens the door and feels like he can breathe. “Dad.”

His father shifts his weight from one leg to the other, fingers tightening around a brown paper bag. “Can I -- is it okay if I come in?”

“Yeah, of course,” Blaine answers, flustered. He steps aside to let his father in and shuts the door behind him. He barely gives his father time to turn around before wrapping his arms around his father, exhaling slowly. Blaine feels both adrift and anchored all at once, but it doesn’t bother him the way it did before.

His father allows the contact for a moment or two before pulling back a little, surveying Blaine curiously. “Are you okay?”

It’s such a loaded question, one that Blaine’s not sure he could answer even if he was ready to. So much has happened since he last saw his father, so much and yet so little all at the same time. Blaine’s still trying to learn how to process and deal with it all, especially with his recent escapades outside. He’s getting better at learning how to talk to Tracie about it (a little ironic, considering that she’s his therapist and he trusts her more than anyone else in his life), but he’s still nowhere near being ready to talk to anyone else about it, no matter how much he wants to. He knows it would change his relationship with his parents drastically if they knew, and he’s not sure he can handle that much change all at once.

Blaine nods and pulls back a little to give both of them a little space. “I’m okay.”

His father doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he deposits the paper bag in his hand on the kitchen island and starts to peel off his coat. “I brought lunch,” he says, hanging the coat up on a hook, “from the deli place we both like. I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh,” Blaine says, a little flustered. “I was... just about to make crepes, actually, but --”

The bag crinkles loudly as his father rolls the top of it shut again. “That sounds infinitely better. The sandwiches can be used as a backup in case these crepes of yours don’t turn out.”

Blaine looks back down at his cookbook with a smile. “Okay,” he laughs. “You can put those in the fridge for now. I’ll do my best. I’ve never made crepes before.”

His father settles in comfortably on one of the stools, content to watch Blaine work. He’s only silent for a few minutes, though, before he says anything else. “Can I just tell you why I’m here, instead of waiting until we’re halfway through the meal like your mother would?”

The pleasant smile fades from Blaine’s face, and he shifts uncomfortably on his feet and doesn’t look up at his father. “I guess I do prefer the whole upfront approach you take as opposed to Mom’s backwards way of bringing something uncomfortable up.”

“I’m assuming you got the gifts we sent you,” his father says, taking the permission, “for you birthday and for Christmas.”

Blaine nods. “And I’m assuming Mom got the cookies I sent her.” He pauses and chances a glance up at his father, cocking an eyebrow. “And I’m assuming you ate most of them.”

His father’s guilty smile is answer enough. “I _am_ here to see you, Blaine, but I’m also here to talk to you about your mother.”

Blaine sighs and leans back against the counter, frustrated. “We exchanged apology gifts. I don’t know what else she wants from me, Dad.”

“Permission,” his father answers simply.

“So what,” Blaine asks dryly, “she wants an _invitation_ to start visiting me again?”

“I think she needs it,” his father explains gently, “just like you needed your space.”

Blaine stares down at the open page of his cookbook, unseeing. He can’t pick up the phone and call her -- it’s not that easy or simple. The communication between Blaine and the rest of his family is stilted and awkward; he doesn’t want to try to painfully struggle through a dialogue with her, especially when he can’t see her. And if he’s keeping his parents in the dark about his recent progress for the time being, then he can’t just show up at his parents’ house to invite her over. Which means he has to send her something, but his previous gesture -- the plate of _I’m sorry_ cookies -- didn’t seem to do much to thaw her toward him. Still, if he’s explicit in his invitation, another gesture might be more well-received.

“I’ll think of something,” Blaine answers distractedly. “I need some time to figure out what will work. _I’m sorry_ cookies don’t work very well when the spouse eats them all.” His father makes an indignant noise of protest, but Blaine waves his hand dismissively to prevent him from actually saying anything. “I know you care, Dad, but this isn’t your fight.”

His dad’s mouth twitches into a smile. “If you ever get married, Blaine, you’ll understand why it is.”

A phantom twitch in his hand, and Blaine resigns with a heavy sigh. “I was thinking of using apples and nutella,” he says. “Does that sound okay to you?”

“You spoil me,” his father laughs.

Blaine rolls his eyes and opens the refrigerator, back turned toward his father. “Consider it a thank you for coming to see me,” he says. “And for your heart being in the right place.”

* * * * *

_Friday, 17 January 2020_

Friday is the day Blaine’s forced to push the boundaries of his world beyond the six walls he lives in.

Today is day ten of the follow-through, and he’s pushing his boundaries a little bit farther than he has before. He tries to be strategic about it when he plans, tries to account for outside factors and variables. He breaks with routine and postpones his trip outside until the afternoon. Fridays are filled with activity, from his prescription arrival to his exercise regimen to the delivery of groceries. He’s also not entirely sure when the flower bodega will be open, so he figures that afternoon is best, after the deliveries and whatnot.

He leaves his apartment around two o’clock, phone and wallet and keys and prescription bottle tucked away in his pockets. He wraps himself up in his coat and scarf and gloves to keep warm against the cold and the now. This time, he also takes with him his music player, earbuds tucked in tightly to ward against the noise of the city. It’s less threatening and distracting from his apartment or even from the bench just outside of the building, but this is different. He’s venturing into the thick of it for the first time since November, voluntarily this time, and he wants to employ whatever tools he can to help keep his anxiety under control. Blocking out the noise will help him keep his focus, and in turn, the music will keep him calm. It almost always does.

He shivers a little when he steps outside; with each new trip outside, he finds himself grateful that he’s at least been avoiding fairly awful weather by staying inside. In hindsight, deciding to rejoin the outside world in the dead of winter may not have been the brightest plan, but he wouldn’t go back and change the decision for anything, not when he’s doing so well.

Blaine presses play, and music floods his ears, thrumming in his veins.

Blaine’s fingers flex at his sides as if he’s about to sit down at his piano, and he takes a step beyond the bench in front of his building.

One step at a time, one foot in front of the other, in, out, and Blaine makes it to the bodega on the corner of his block with relative ease. He rocks on the balls of his feet, a little nervous, but for the most part, the world exists around him and spins on. There are more people outside in the middle of the afternoon, bustling by quickly. Blaine avoids them carefully, not wanting to be jostled, and with the music centering him, he turns his attention to the flowers in the bodega, surveying his options. There isn’t much, to be honest, or at least there isn’t much that’s in good condition. Blaine supposes the season and weather are to blame, but he figures it’s worth a second look before abandoning the search as a hopeless cause.

A tap on his shoulder startles him out of his study, and he jumps a little before glancing over his shoulder. He relaxes at the sight of Kurt smiling at him and tugs the earbuds out of his ears, tucking his hand into his pocket to hit the pause button. “You know, Blaine,” Kurt says dryly, “you don’t have to buy me flowers.”

Blaine laughs and returns the smile, forgetting the cold for a moment. “I was looking for some for my mom, actually,” he explains, “but I think I may just end up ordering an arrangement from _Bloomability_. The selection here is kind of...”

“Sad?” Kurt offers. “Frostbitten?”

“I was going to say weather-worn,” Blaine laughs. “I think I’ll try visiting here again when the weather’s a little warmer.” He gives Kurt a once over and arches an eyebrow curiously. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “You’re still in uniform and it’s not three-thirty yet, so I figure you’re still working. You didn’t try to stop by, did you? I have my phone on me, but --”

“No, no,” Kurt insists, waving a hand dismissively. “I was in the neighborhood. My partner’s handling something close by. I saw you across the street and thought I’d come say hi.”

“Hi,” Blaine says cheekily, grinning from ear to ear. “Did you want to come over after your shift?”

There’s a warmth to Kurt’s smile now, more than before, and he nudges Blaine’s arm with his own companionably. “I’d like that.” He glances across the street, then, and Blaine’s eyes follow to the distraction, a woman in uniform waving to get Kurt’s attention. Blaine turns his attention back to Kurt, who is rolling his eyes. “There are better ways of getting my attention,” he murmurs. “She always has to make things difficult.” Blaine raises an eyebrow in silent question, but Kurt just shakes his head and sighs. “She’s my partner and we get along just fine, but she can kind of be...”

“A pain in the ass?” Blaine supplies helpfully.

Kurt lets out a burst of laughter. “Something like that.” He glances back across the street quickly before turning back to Blaine. “I’ll see you in a few hours?”

“Okay,” Blaine says quietly, smiling even after he’s gone. He turns his attention back to the bodega, distracted now, but he manages to zero in on a collection of ranunculus that have survived the snow and the cold. They’re beautiful, soft and white, petals kept close together. He’s kind of... dazzled by them, which seems like a strange reaction to have to flowers, but he likes it. He asks the gentleman running the business if he can purchase one flower on its own rather than the entire bouquet, and when Blaine is granted permission and has paid, he spins on his heel and heads for the corner, heart picking up speed when he sees Kurt waiting there for the light of the crosswalk to change. He manages to reach the corner just as the light changes, and he holds the ranunculus out in front of Kurt’s arm. Kurt jolts a little in place, prevented from moving forward, and his fingers reach out for the flower tentatively as he looks up to the side to find Blaine smiling at him. “I know I don’t _have to_ ,” Blaine says. Kurt’s fingers enclose around the stem, taking the flower from Blaine, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “I’ll see you later.” He parts with a wave over his shoulder and heads back down the block toward his apartment. He pauses just past the bodega, though, and glances over his shoulder to see if he can still catch sight of Kurt. Kurt’s in the crosswalk now, his uniform making him distinguishable. He’s lifted the flower to his nose to smell it, the petals tickling his nose, and Blaine can just make out the smile beneath the petals.

Satisfied, Blaine turns back around, tucking his earbuds back into place and sliding his hand into his pocket to hit play. Again, the world becomes chords and keys and melodies, but Blaine is much more distracted on his half a block walk home than he was on his way out. He’ll have to call _Bloomability_ when he gets home and place an order for his mother. He’s thinking of using lilies as both a second apology and the invitation she apparently needs, and he’s hoping they’ll at least serve as encouragement if they don’t completely convince her to come visit again.

And then there’s Kurt.

Blaine’s still not entirely sure what to make of their relationship. They’re friends, that much is clear. And Blaine is grateful for that, he _is_. He likes having someone to talk to about things other than his work or his anxiety. He likes the sound of laughter. He likes -- he enjoys the physical presence of another person. He’d never really noticed it before, and Tracie had never asked, but Blaine’s realized that much of his affection -- and the affection of others -- was communicated through touch. Sadie Hawkins changed all of that, but spending time with Kurt on a fairly regular basis has brought back reminders of how nice it feels to touch and be touched. He feels warmer and more relaxed overall, and he appreciates the ease and comfort and surprising familiarity he has with Kurt.

Still, there’s an undercurrent of... _something_ between them, something beyond the friendship they’ve tentatively built (mostly) in Blaine’s apartment. Blaine can feel it when Kurt’s hand or gaze or smile lingers just a little too long, can feel it with the sparks that fly up his hand and arm. And he can feel it in the harmless teasing and flirting, their words tentative and joking but somehow still sincere, hopeful. But Blaine finds that he can (usually) easily keep his desires in check, no matter how mutual they might be. He doesn’t -- he doesn’t _need_ the romantic implications. He’s not quite sure how he’d handle them, honestly, given his history. He’s only ever been on one sort-of-not-really-a-date date, and that had been eleven years ago and it hadn’t ended well.

The thing is, Blaine isn’t fourteen anymore. And who he was then is only a part of who he is now. There is always the potential for change, if he’s open to it.

Blaine remembers Kurt’s smile beneath the the blossoming petals, and he thinks Kurt might be open to it, too.

* * * * *


	5. February

** February **

_Friday, 14 February 2020_

Blaine is standing in front of his closet in his underwear and has absolutely no idea what to wear.

His current dilemma stems from an invitation to the theater from Kurt, who had been mildly appalled when he’d learned that Blaine hadn’t been to see a show since he was thirteen and had offered to treat him. It’s a little farther than Blaine’s entirely comfortable going, Broadway, but he’s been making enough progress beyond the realm of his block to feel like he’ll be okay. He’s started making his own trips to the grocery store every Friday instead of having them delivered, and that alone has made enough of a difference. He’d gone alone the first time and had a mild anxiety attack, but he’d gotten home and settled without needing an extra dose of his medication. The trip took him longer the second time, mostly because he let himself indulge in people-watching as he perused the aisles. He’s still not entirely sure how the rest of the world sees him just yet, but he’s starting to note the changes in it, how everything and everyone moves much faster than before, how he stands out less and draws less attention.

The thing is, he _likes_ not garnering a lot of attention. He used to love attention, as a child. He used to have dreams of being on Broadway, influenced by the city he grew up in as well as an older brother who preferred the slow, lazy shine of California. Now, Blaine is content to blend in and get by because these are actually _good_ things. They’re progress.

Dressing for the theater requires a certain elevation of attire, and that’s bound to draw at least a little attention, even in this city. Add to that the fact that he’s going with another man who happens to be a police officer, and, well. His current dilemma makes perfect sense to him.

There’s also the issue of exactly what this outing _means_ that he’s trying not to think about too much. Kurt hadn’t been specific when he’d asked, and it’s not like they haven’t gone out before, but this is... different. This is dinner that Blaine is insisting on paying for and tickets to a Broadway show that Kurt is insisting on treating him to and the whole affair feels a little too much like what a date is supposed to be like. And, well, Blaine’s never actually been on a real date before. And _that_ makes his dilemma a little more complicated.

Blaine closes his eyes and flexes his fingers. In, out. He can do this. He just has to deal with one thing at a time, and it’s better if he starts with the things he knows rather than the things he suspects.

He is going to the theater.

He can work with that. He opens his eyes and relaxes a little, eyes zeroing in on his selection of slacks. He figures he can’t go wrong with something a little safe, a little neutral, and his fingers reach for a black pair before he hops into them. Half-dressed, Blaine allows himself to revel in the feeling of accomplishment, regardless of how mundane and simplistic the task actually is. He crosses the room to his dresser and tugs out an undershirt to buy time and clear his head a little before returning to his closet. Attention focused on tops, Blaine chooses a navy blue and white checkered button-down without hesitation, debating momentarily whether or not to add a sweater vest before deciding against it. And from there, it’s easy. Belt, coat, scarf, socks, shoes. He spends the most time digging through his collection of bowties, and it’s only then, with this last addition, that he feels the frazzled nerves return. The tie can accent and complete the entire rest of the ensemble, but his choice of pattern could also clue Kurt into his suspicions, and Blaine’s not entirely sure whether or not he should go there tonight.

It is, after all, Valentine’s Day.

Briefly, his hand hovers over a black bowtie patterned with red hearts, but he passes over it in favor of [a grey, jigsaw puzzle patterned bowtie](http://oi44.tinypic.com/9gke0w.jpg), an old favorite he’d found online when he was nineteen and feeling a little nostalgic for Katy Perry.

In the mirror, he glances over his ensemble and tries not to fidget. He doesn’t look that different than he normally does; he’s a little more dressed up, sure, as reflected in his pants and his shoes, but overall he looks the same. He feels dressed for the theater.

Now, what does he do if this turns out to be a date?

His lungs _ache_ suddenly, the phantom pain of a baseball bat suddenly very real again, and he sinks down onto the foot of the bed, breathless. He closes his eyes and splays a hand over his ribs, reminding himself that he is intact and whole and decidedly not broken. He’s twenty-five, not fourteen, and even if the world still harbors the same kind of people that it did back then, the outcome of tonight will not necessarily be the same. It _won’t_ be the same, not as an adult, not with a cab ride home, not with a police officer.

In, out. Blaine looks over his shoulder at his prescription bottle on the nightstand and bites his lip, contemplating. He doesn’t want to have to rely on his medication unless he absolutely needs to, but he’d rather not take the risk of being out and not having any on hand, especially not after November. He also doesn’t want to take the entire bottle and rattle all night long. He compromises by moving to the nightstand and digging around for his keys. He’s recently added a small, discreet travel pill box that looks more like a metal canister or whistle on a keychain. He chooses to transfer a few of his pills into that instead, leaving himself a Post-It note on the nightstand as a reminder to transfer them back when he gets home.

Keys, wallet, phone, handkerchief, and there is thankfully a knock on his front door.

Once he opens the door to Kurt, everything becomes _easy_. The ache in Blaine’s chest is gone and he doesn’t give a second thought to his attire because Kurt pulls all the focus anyway while they’re at dinner at an Italian place near Blaine’s apartment. Kurt pays for the cab to the theater when Blaine requests that they avoid the subway, and they talk for the duration of the ride, something Blaine finds himself grateful for with every sharp and abrupt turn of the taxi. Together, they climb out of the cab onto the sidewalk and lift their eyes to the glittering marquee above them.

“You know,” Kurt muses, “since it debuted on Broadway seven years ago, you would think that the tagline wouldn’t be relevant anymore.”

“What,” Blaine laughs, “like glass slippers are supposed to be out of style?”

Kurt nods. “But they’re not. They’re timeless, just like the music and the story.” There’s something in his voice that makes Blaine turn to look at him, and the sight of Kurt’s profile, backlit by the marquee, eyes glittering and a fond smile on his face, takes Blaine’s breath away.

Okay, so maybe he wants this to be a date more than he’s willing to admit.

Inside the theater, the music swells as the orchestra begins to play the overture, and Blaine feels safe.

The story is familiar and the costumes are beautiful, but Blaine is, understandably, most drawn to the music, and he immerses himself in it with ease. He doesn’t realize that he’s been crying through a good portion of “In My Own Little Corner” until he feels Kurt’s fingertips rest gently on the back of his hand; Blaine offers him an embarrassed smile and unearths his handkerchief to dab at his face. He offers it to Kurt during “Ten Minutes Ago” and gets it back for “There’s Music In You.”

When they slip into the cab, Kurt’s head finds Blaine’s shoulder, Blaine’s fingers tapping against his thighs in an attempt to mimic the melodies they’d heard tonight. Blaine pays, this time, when they arrive at his apartment, and Kurt walks him to the door of his apartment building, an echo of the day they met. Kurt’s fingers brush against the back of Blaine’s hand as they walk, and Blaine _can’t_ ignore it anymore; he _has_ to ask, no matter how much it scares him. There’s so much that could go wrong just by asking, so many ways he could make things awkward between them, so many things he could lose.

Blaine is done -- or at least, he _wants_ to be done with being held back by fear and apprehension and anxiety. He knows he won’t always be able to help it, but this is a risk he feels comfortable taking. He -- he trusts Kurt, at least to an extent, and he’s not afraid of losing him. Not after tonight. They all share a bond -- Kurt and Blaine and Ella. They’d rather help people than hurt if they can, and it’s that Blaine thinks of -- the kindness of people like Ella and Kurt -- when he comes to a stop in front of the bench.

Blaine shifts his weight from one leg to the other, awkwardly tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “Can I... ask you something?” Kurt raises his eyebrows expectantly in silent permission. “Was this...” Blaine tapers off and looks down at the sidewalk beneath his feet, scuffing his toe nervously against the pavement. “Was this a date?” he asks, lifting his head to meet Kurt’s eyes again.

Kurt’s face remains impassive for a moment, his own hands tucked into his pockets, before the corners of his mouth twitch up into a tight-lipped smile. “I was kind of hoping it was, yeah,” he admits sheepishly, blushing a little. “Did you... have a good time?”

“I did,” Blaine assures him. “I hadn’t been to a show in years. It was... _wonderful_ , thank you.”

Kurt’s smile relaxes a little into something more warm, but the color of his blush just turns darker. “I, um, I don’t normally do this,” he chuckles quietly.

Blaine bites his lip and flexes his fingers in his pocket, trying to keep calm. “What,” he quips, teasing, “go on dates?”

It’s Kurt’s turn to look at the ground now, clearly a little embarrassed. “That too,” he says, “but that’s not, um, exactly what I was referring to.”

Blaine wrinkles his brow in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Kurt looks up at him slowly, blue eyes striking, and for the first time in a very long time, Blaine feels a little okay with feeling a little lost.

And then -- oh.

_Oh_.

It takes Blaine a moment to register Kurt’s lips on his, a little cold and chapped. Blaine’s eyes flutter shut almost involuntarily, and he lifts both hands out of his pockets to weigh on Kurt’s forearms, searching for an anchor. It’s difficult to really _feel_ Kurt, with all of the layers between them, but Blaine’s gesture prompts Kurt into his own movement, and his hands snake up and around Blaine’s waist to the small of his back, pulling him a little closer. It causes Kurt’s lips to move a little more smoothly his own, and oh _god_ , Blaine can feel the warmth blooming all the way through him, from his chest to his eyebrows to the tip of his nose, and his toes curl inside of his shoes. He feels a little light-headed, pin-pricks starting to form in his chest and behind his eyes.

In, out, breathe.

Blaine grips Kurt’s arms a little tighter and angles his head to the side a little, kissing back. At least he hopes he’s kissing back effectively enough, but he honestly doesn’t care that much about the semantics of it right now because _god_ , does this feel good.

It’s over almost as soon as it begun, Kurt pulling back with a sharp exhale. In, out, and it takes them a moment to catch their breath and meet each other’s eyes properly. “Oh,” Blaine breathes stupidly, unable to come up with anything else to say. He’s somehow lost his grasp on the English language in the last thirty seconds. He’s not entirely sure how that happened. Maybe it got lost in Kurt’s mouth somehow. Blaine’s pretty sure that doesn’t make sense. He’s also pretty sure he doesn’t care.

Kurt pulls his hands away and puts a little space between them. Blaine misses the warmth instantly but can’t bring himself to speak or move. Back into his pockets Kurt’s hands go, but he smiles as he looks up and away for a moment, clearly collecting himself. “That,” Kurt laughs, looking back down to meet Blaine’s eyes. “That, I don’t do that. I don’t normally kiss on the first date.”

“To be fair,” Blaine says, struggling to keep his voice even, and oh, hey, his words are working again, “we didn’t really establish that this was a date until about two minutes ago. And,” he adds, gaining momentum, “you’ve already broken the rule once, so...”

Kurt arches an eyebrow at him, smiling wider. “Are you actually encouraging a law enforcement officer to break rules?”

“They’re self-imposed rules,” Blaine reasons. “And even if this rule _was_ a law, who would you even call to report your actions?”

“I’m trying to set a good example,” Kurt laughs. “Limitations are important.”

“True,” Blaine allows, the words striking a chord. He bites his lip and blinks down at the ground a little demurely, trying to regain his composure. “Out of curiosity,” he says slowly, “does this rule of yours apply to _all_ kisses on the first date?”

“Meaning?” Kurt pries, clearly amused.

“Meaning,” Blaine murmurs, stepping forward to close the distance between them and reanchoring his hands on Kurt’s forearms, “does it count as breaking the rule if I initiate?” A beat, and then Blaine looks back up at him through his eyelashes, heart beating wildly in his chest.

Kurt’s mouth is hanging open a little as he struggles to reply, his eyes shifting rapidly as he studies Blaine’s face. “I -- I don’t know,” he stammers, gaze drifting down to Blaine’s hands. Another beat, and then another, and -- “Oh, screw it.” Kurt tugs his arms out of Blaine grasp and rockets forward, fisting his hands in the material of Blaine’s coat in order to pull him close again. Their lips meet a second time, harder than before and a little off-center, and Blaine has to grab at Kurt’s lapel to steady himself. Blaine matches Kurt’s kisses as eagerly as he can, though less skillfully, again and again until he can hardly breathe. Kurt’s the one to pull away again, gasping for air. He places a hand against Blaine’s chest to keep them apart but still close, and Blaine thanks the layers between them for concealing his heartbeat. “I should -- I should probably go,” Kurt says breathlessly, struggling to catch his breath. Blaine blinks his eyes open, confused. “It’s getting late,” Kurt explains, clearing his throat. “I have work early in the morning.”

“Right,” Blaine says faintly, dropping his gaze to where Kurt’s hand is resting against his chest.

“Limitations,” Kurt laughs. “Otherwise I _will_ be here all night, and that is a rule I won’t break.” Blaine bites his lip, face flushing at the implication, but he hardly has time to dwell on it before Kurt’s hand is gently cupping his cheek, prompting Blaine to look back up at him. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promises. He leans in again for one last kiss, the press of lips much softer this time, and smiles softly when he pulls away. “Good night, Blaine.”

Kurt’s already six feet away from him by the time Blaine can pull himself together to call out his own goodbye, and his feet stay rooted to the ground until Kurt’s climbed into another taxi and the vehicle is out of sight. Blaine waves absently at Porter on his way in, lips buzzing pleasantly, and climbs the stairs to the skies, feet flying on the way to his apartment. He closes the door behind him, and the room has no ceiling or floor. Dazed, he makes his way into the living room and sinks down onto the couch, dropping his ticket stub and playbill onto the coffee table.

Blaine may not have _needed_ more than Kurt’s friendship, but he’s certainly _wanted_ it. And now that he has it, he’s still not entirely sure what to do with it, but there is one thing he’s absolutely sure of: he definitely, definitely likes it.

He may never come down to Earth again.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 18 February 2020_

Tracie brings him back down.

He’s wearing the black bowtie with red hearts today and a burgundy sweater to keep him warm, coupled with a pair of dark wash blue jeans. He feels decidedly romantic in a way he wasn’t sure he should on Friday, all the way down to his toes. He makes Tracie her tea and chooses a white hot chocolate for himself, delighting in the rich, sweet taste. She tucks her legs up underneath her on the armchair and curls her hands around her mug, smiling at him. “So,” she says brightly, “what would you like to talk about today? We could talk about your progress, or your mother, if you’d like, or --”

“Kurt kissed me,” he blurts.

She blinks in surprise before letting out a burst of laughter. “Okay,” she chuckles, lifting her mug to her lips. “Let’s talk about that.” She seems amused, which is odd, almost like she --

“You were waiting for it to happen,” he says slowly. “You knew -- you knew how I felt about him even though I never said anything.”

Her lips twist a little as she contemplates an answer. “As your therapist, I only know what you tell me. I can make educated guesses based on that and what I know.”

“So... assumptions,” Blaine gathers, teasing her.

Another laugh, and she lets herself smile again. “Speaking _not_ as your therapist? Yeah, I knew.”

Blaine glances down at the creamy liquid in his mug. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I figured you would talk to me about it when -- if you were ready.”

Blaine smiles to himself at that -- Tracie _does_ know when and how far to push him. That much still hasn’t changed, even when everything all around him is. “I, um --” He rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, unable to keep from smiling and blushing. “I’m not sure where to start.” He snaps his head up to look at her, unsurprised when he sees her biting her lip in an attempt not to laugh. “I know, I know, the opening’s right there.”

“The beginning is a good place to start,” Tracie says, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “Go back to when you met him. Were your feelings ever more than those of just friendship?”

“Kind of? I’ve always been... attracted to him,” Blaine admits. “And we... flirted a little sometimes, I guess. I like him, Tracie, but I didn’t need more than the friendship. We have chemistry, but we never really acted on it.”

“Until recently.”

Blaine closes his eyes, breaking out into a grin. “Yeah.”

“Tell me what happened,” she prompts.

Eyes open and Blaine sets his mug down on the table, curling up in the corner of the couch. “He took me to the theater,” he starts, voice quiet. He rests his chin on one of the throw pillows and blinks over at Tracie, eyes warm. “He wanted to treat me after he found out that I hadn’t been to a show since I was thirteen.”

“Did you tell him why you hadn’t been in so long?” she asks. Blaine’s smile falters and he shakes his head, uncomfortable. “What does he know, exactly?”

“He knows about the panic attacks, obviously, and he knows that things are tense with my mom.” He pauses, squeezing the pillow a little tighter, smile flickering back to life. “He knows that I’m a composer.”

Tracie smiles. “What musical did you see?”

“ _Cinderella_.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Blaine nods. “After, we took a cab back here and he walked me to my door and -- I wasn’t entirely sure if it was supposed to be a date or not. I’m happy with his friendship, but I just... had to know.”

“So you asked,” she guesses. “Was it?”

Blaine nods again, sitting up a little, tucking the pillow against his chest. “And then he just... kissed me, which apparently he doesn’t normally do on a first date. And I... flirted -- god, when did I get good at flirting? I mean, at least I think I was good at it, because he kissed me again and then again to say good night and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

“When was this?”

“Friday,” he answers. “Valentine’s Day.”

“Have you talked to him since?”

Blaine shakes his head. “We’ve texted a little, but I probably won’t see him until tomorrow or Thursday.” His smile falters a little and he looks over at her curiously. “Why?”

Her smile is barely there now, pleasant and polite. She takes a moment before answering him, clearly weighing her options and choosing her words carefully. “May I make an observation?”

The request jars him more than it should. They’re comfortable enough around each other to be a little more upfront and unguarded than most people are with their therapist, but Tracie knows where the lines are. She knows when to cross them and when to stay away from them. If she’s asking for permission to share her thoughts, she must be close to a line she’s not sure Blaine’s ready to cross. This is the part of therapy he sometimes forgets. They’re so comfortable with each other, they see each other so often, and Blaine has had so little that was really new to talk about for so long that when they do approach territory that he struggles with, it’s always a little more trying and painful than he remembers. And he remembers, now, what she’s said during his first session this year, after he’d met her outside.

_This is kind of new territory for both of us._

In, out. Blaine tries to give Tracie the benefit of the doubt. “Go ahead.”

She shifts a little in her seat, turning her body so she’s facing him a little more directly. “Previously, you and I have discussed wanting a sense of family outside of the one you were born into. When you told me about the influence Kurt’s had on you, the role he played in helping you get outside, even if he wasn’t the reason, you said yes when I asked if he gave you that sense of family.”

“I remember.”

“A romance built upon friendship is often a good thing,” Tracie allows, “but I think I can safely argue that things _will_ change now.”

Blaine squeezes the pillow a little tighter, anchoring himself. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly, “they probably will.”

“Most of those changes will probably be for the better,” she says encouragingly.

“But?” Blaine prompts, knowing there’s more she hasn’t said yet.

“The dynamics of your relationship with him will change. So will the sense of family you feel because of him, at least to some extent.” She pauses for a moment, softening a little. “I don’t want you to think I’m discouraging the progression of your relationship with Kurt. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“So what are you trying to say?”

“Romantic or not, Kurt has been the only person these last few months who has given you that sense of family,” she points out.

Blaine offers her a wry smile. “So you’re saying I should make some more friends.”

He can see the sympathy written all over her face when she replies. “You’ve been going outside for six weeks now, Blaine. Have you really interacted with anyone in that time?”

Blaine looks away from her to his mug sitting on the table, longing for the sweetness back. “No, not really,” he admits, mumbling. “Not unless I’ve had to, at places like the grocery store. I’m always polite.”

“Polite and friendly are two different things,” she points out gently.

Blaine throws his head back and rests it against the top of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “This is like grade school all over again,” he groans. “I don’t --” He sits up properly to look at her again, frustrated. “When I first met Kurt, one of the things I noticed was how rusty my social skills were. I felt... awkward, and not just because I was in the middle of a panic attack. Kurt’s been easy to befriend. He made it easy. He just sort of... fell into my lap.” At Tracie’s amused expression, he rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“So you’re anxious about interacting with new people in a real way now that you’re part of the outside world again,” Tracie deduces. Arms squeezed even tighter around the pillow, Blaine nods. “I have a suggestion that I think might help, if you’d like.”

He sighs a little dramatically and relaxes against the cushions again. “Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

“Not exactly,” she laughs. “That’s true to some extent, but you do far more work in these sessions than I do.” She’s quiet for a moment before speaking again. “I’d like to discuss the possibility of you attending a support group.”

Blaine lifts his head to look at her again, brow wrinkled in confusion. “A support group?” he echoes. “What, like AA for anxiety?”

“Sort of. We might have to broaden the horizons a little to find the appropriate fit for you, but I can take the time to look into it, if it’s something you’re interested in. We can approach it from a variety of different angles -- anxiety, control, panic attacks, mental disorders.”

Blaine rubs at his temple with his thumbs, trying to stay focused. “And how do you think this will help?”

“Going to a support group is different than therapy,” she explains. “You and I -- we work through your issues. Group provides you with an environment where you can just talk.”

“But I do that here,” he says, confused.

“We have a dialogue,” she corrects, “one that allows you to evaluate yourself and make changes. Group will give you the opportunity to be around people who are like you, Blaine, people who have issues and struggle. They won’t necessarily manifest in the same ways -- you might see people with eating disorders or obsessive compulsive disorder or something else. But there will be a common thread somewhere, and that’s what may be able to help. It’s why people go. Few people can really understand exactly what you’ve been through, what you’re going through. When you surround yourself with people who can relate, it might make it easier to talk about. And if you can share the more intimate parts of yourself -- confidentially, of course -- with a group of strangers, it might make say, I don’t know, striking up a conversation with someone in a bookstore or coffee shop less daunting.” She lets a lull hang in the air for a few moments, sipping her tea to give her words time to sink in. “What do you think about that?”

Blaine drops his head to stare at the carpet for a moment. “I think it sounds terrifying,” he answers honestly. He thinks of Friday, of the question he’d been so afraid to ask, the line he’d been so afraid of crossing. He thinks of the press of Kurt’s lips against his own, remembers the pleasant, buzzing feeling that had lingered long after they’d parted ways. He thinks of his desire for change and all that he’s done so far to implement it. He thinks of the risks he’s taken and the rewards he’s reaped. He looks up at Tracie with a tentative smile and exhales. “But I think I’d like to try.”

* * * * *

_Friday, 21 February 2020_

A week -- or, almost a week, give or take a few hours -- after Kurt kissed him, Blaine breaks with tradition. He sticks to his new routine and goes outside after getting dressed, and since it’s Friday, he makes his daily outing his weekly trip to the grocery store where he offers his handkerchief to a sweet, sniffling little girl and makes sure to stock up on supplies. He feels like he’s on the precipice of change -- _more_ change, change that will potentially require him entertaining -- and feeding -- more people in his apartment. He has brunch in the dining room in the chair that’s closest to the window and settles in at his piano bench around midday, cracking his fingers in preparation.

It’s then that he gives pause and turns around to look at his desk. His mind has been so _full_ lately that he feels like he should stick to what he knows. Fridays are his days. Fridays are the days he leaves the pages of blank sheet music tucked away in the drawers, because Fridays have always been the days that his mind is too full to make sense of anything. Fridays are the days he has anxiety in his fingers and a longing for comfort found in familiar melodies.

Blaine wants to open the drawer.

As busy as he has been lately, as full as his mind has been, Blaine has been longing for something new. In the last week in particular, he’s felt it bombarding his senses: the notes and chords that drift in and out of his mind, half-written; the melody that threatens to spark out of his fingertips; the melody that takes up his diaphragm and chest and throat and vibrates his vocal cords with every absent hum.

Blaine wants to create, so he opens the drawer.

Paper and pencil in front of him, Blaine sits up a little straighter at his perch, feeling in his element. In, eyes closed, and Blaine remembers the way he’d felt when Kurt’s lips had first touched his, remembers the music that had played in his mind, a score to his own story. His mouth twitches into a smile.

He really is a composer.

The notes and chords come first, and he scribbles them down so he doesn’t forget. His fingers test them out for him, loose and fluid and right at home, and he makes adjustments as he goes, occasionally erasing something if it doesn’t sound quite right. He gets about five bars down before he starts to stall out, the music in his ears quieter and more elusive. The spark in his fingers dies down into a dim flicker, and Blaine rests his pencil atop his piano, done for now. He shuffles the sheet music into a neat stack and carries it back to his desk, clipping his work together and sliding it back into the drawer.

One of the very few picture frames on the desk catches his eye as he slides the drawer shut, and it’s with an ache in his chest that he sinks down into his desk chair and reaches for it, running his thumb along the frame. It’s an older picture of his mother, back when she was still in her thirties and Blaine was just a child. It’s from one of the family reunions, oddly enough, a picture that’s twenty years old and etched in black and white. He’s not sure if his mother has ever noticed it before, for all that she’s been visiting him twice a month until -- well, until recently. It’d probably annoy her if she knew about it, actually, but Blaine doesn’t care. It’s his favorite photograph of her simply because it’s the most accurate visual he has to accompany his favorite memories of her. He was five when the photograph was taken -- by his father, actually. She’d been so much more _relaxed_ back then, less concerned with keeping up appearances and easier to talk to. Her hair had been longer, then, braided into a long ponytail and swept to the side, and she’d been wearing a comfortable pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, scoop necked black t-shirt. And even though she’s taken prodigiously good care of him since Sadie Hawkins, it hasn’t been the same, not compared to the way she’d taken care of him as a child. He remembers her being a _mother_ to him, soothing him when he’d been ill, giving him clip-ons to wear before he’d learned how to properly tie a bowtie.

He misses his mother.

He hasn’t heard from her since she sent him birthday flowers over two months ago. His father had informed him that his invitation flowers -- a bouquet of lilies -- had been well-received, but that she still needed more time. And Blaine can understand that -- he _does_ , especially with everything he’s been through, everything he’s going through now. But the ache of missing her grows stronger every day, and there’s only so much Blaine can do before he’s really unable to fill the void she’s left. And the stupid thing is that he _knows_ that she’s just being stubborn about this. He knows and he gets that, because he gets his stubborn streak from her. But it still feels like he’s done something _wrong_ in asking her for space even though he knows he hasn’t, and he hates that she can make him feel this way.

He hates missing her like this.

Blaine sets the frame down with a sigh and rubs hard at his eyes. In, out, and it takes him a few seconds to adjust to the light in the room again before he can see properly. His gaze lands on the opposite corner of the desk to where his old camera sits. He wishes that he could share his rediscovery with the art with his father, but Blaine’s still not ready to share with his parents yet, especially when he hasn’t made up with his mother. He and Kurt have sporadically used the camera a few times since Christmas, though not nearly enough to warrant using the entire roll of film. Without Kurt, the camera has sat here on Blaine’s desk, taunting him.

It’s all about perception.

Blaine draws in a breath and squares his shoulders. So much of what he’s been trying to work on is understanding perception -- his own and others’. His mother is included in that, and he’ll make an honest effort to really _talk_ to his mom, once she’s started talking again. In the meantime, Blaine won’t be able to see the pictures he and Kurt have taken, won’t be able to see the shift in perception until he finishes the roll and develops the film. And in order to finish the roll, he has to take more pictures. Tracie’s been wanting him to interact with people more. This may be a way to do it while still giving Blaine the comfort of keeping to himself, if he wants. He can hide behind the lens and feel safe.

But Blaine doesn’t always have to hide anymore.

Determined, Blaine pushes himself to his feet and starts to add layers to himself again, shoes and coat and scarf and gloves and winter hat. It’s unusually cold for this late in February (or at least, that’s what he’s gathered from the chatter of people around him at the store this morning), and he doesn’t want to be deterred because of it.

Armor on, Blaine grabs hold of his weapon of choice and ventures back outside.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 23 February 2020_

Blaine Anderson is absolutely miserable.

He hasn’t showered yet today despite how much it might help him feel better simply because he doesn’t have the energy to stand that long right now. He could run himself a bath, instead, but he’s afraid of falling asleep. He’s _tired_. He’s so tired that he can barely keep his eyes open, but he can’t sleep because he can hardly breathe. His chest _rattles_ every time he breathes, there’s no other word for it. He’s like a chain-carrying ghost. He _feels_ like a ghost. He’s sure he looks like one too, skin pale and sickly. His throat feels thick and it hurts to swallow and he can’t breathe out of his nose, he’s so congested. He’s hot and he’s cold and his head is throbbing and he is absolutely _miserable_.

He’s sick. He’s sick and he hasn’t been in a very, very long time. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have the flu, but after this, he’s pretty sure he’ll never forget again. He’ll have to drag himself to a physician for a physical soon, anyway, and a dentist because he hasn’t had any examinations since he was fourteen. It’s a wonder he’s still in one piece and not falling apart at the seams, actually, although it doesn’t exactly feel like it right now. He may have to call Tracie to cancel Tuesday’s session. He’s already limited his interaction with Kurt to text messages until he’s better, partially because he doesn’t want to get Kurt sick but mostly because talking on the phone only agitates his throat. His brain is muddled and fuzzy and he can’t even think about composing something new, even if he could sit up at the piano long enough to try. He’s also running out of soup and juice from his emergency run to the grocery store yesterday evening when he’d begun to feel off, which means that if he wants more, he’s going to have to order them online.

A knock on the door breaks his misery, and it’s all he can do to drag himself off of the couch and onto his feet. He shuffles to the door sleepily, hoping that Kurt didn’t decide to try visiting anyway because Blaine would feel really, really awful if he were responsible for --

It’s not Kurt.

Blaine blinks blearily into awareness, surprised. “Mom,” he rasps, voice scratchy from disuse and coughing. He tries to clear his throat and ends up having a coughing fit, his whole chest aching with the effort. He covers his mouth with his arm and steps aside to let her in, too focused on being able to breathe again to worry about the semantics. He closes the door behind her once she’s inside and wraps his robe more tightly around himself, shivering. His eyes fall to the kitchen island where she’s set down a bouquet of gerbera daisies, and if Blaine had any energy at all, he’d probably burst into tears. “You brought me flowers.”

“Yes,” she says quietly, surveying him anxiously. He can see her hands spasming a little with the effort of holding back. “You’re sick,” she observes.

“I’m sick,” Blaine affirms with a sniffle.

“You haven’t been sick in ages.”

“Yeah, I know, Mom, I --” He tapers off, words failing him. He can’t really explain to her why, exactly, he’s sick. He can’t tell her that he’s sick because of the kindness he’d extended toward a little girl because that inevitably will lead to him telling her that he’s started going outside, and that will inevitably lead to talking about all of the changes he’s making, and even if Blaine were ready, he has no energy whatsoever to deal with the onslaught of questions she’s bound to have. There’s an awkward silence between them for a moment or two, and Blaine turns his attention back to the daisies just to break the tension. “Here, let me, um, find a vase for those, just --”

“I can do that,” she says. “You go sit down. Where would you like them?”

Blaine doesn’t have the energy to argue. “The living room, please,” he sighs, shuffling through the kitchen toward the dining room. “Thank you.” He makes his way back into the living room and collapses onto the couch, too spent to try and make it to the bedroom. He curls up with one of the throw pillows and closes his eyes, silently willing his body to stop aching.

He starts when he feels the back of her hand press against his forehead. Disoriented, he blinks his eyes open and props himself up a little, noticing the warm blanket she’s draped over him. “Did I fall asleep?”

His mother shakes her head. “Not really.” She sighs and removes her hand, settling onto her knees in front of the couch. “You’re warm, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“I’ll be okay,” he sniffs, curling the edges of the blanket closer. “It’s just the flu, Mom.”

She doesn’t look like she believes him, but she doesn’t argue and moves to sit on the edge of the chaise. She looks uncomfortable, hands gripping each other tightly in her lap, and she doesn’t meet his eyes when she speaks. “I’m sorry if I’m smothering you.”

Blaine wishes he could laugh. “You’re definitely hovering, but if there were a good time for you to do it, now would be it.”

There’s a hint of a smile on her face. “Not too old to let your mother take care of you when you’re sick?”

“Right now, when I’m this sick and miserable? Not at all.” The smile grows, just a little, but she still won’t look him in the eye. Again, Blaine’s eyes fall to the daisies, now arranged in a vase on his coffee table. “Why gerbera daisies?”

She blinks up, clearly a little surprised. “Oh,” she says faintly. “I -- there’s a flower bodega just on the corner. They didn’t have much variety, but these seemed to be the most... friendly.”

Blaine props his head up on his hand for support and smiles at her. “I love you.” It’s that that makes her look him in the eye, and it takes the breath he doesn’t have away to see tears spring so quickly into her eyes. “Mom --” She doesn’t let him finish, moving in close to wrap her arms around him and tug him against her. And it feels so _nice_ to be held by her like this, but Blaine is sick and his breathing capacity is not at its best right now. He taps at her side a little clumsily, mumbling into her sweater. “Mom,” he gasps. “Mom, you’re actually smothering me, I can’t breathe.” She lets go of him quickly, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “I _want_ to be able to talk to you,” he admits. “But maybe when I’m feeling less... miserable.”

She nods in agreement, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Did you, um, do you want me to leave?”

Blaine shakes his head and reaches out to grasp her hand loosely with his own. “Stay,” he requests, just as quiet. “I can’t promise I’ll be all that interesting -- I’ve been camped out on the couch most of the day. I’ve had the TV on occasionally, when I can’t sleep. There’s bound to be something decent on.”

“That’s what Food Network and the Cooking Channel are for, dear,” she chides.

“Don’t talk about food,” Blaine groans. “I’m starving and I only bought a couple of cans of soup yesterday. I’m almost out.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” his mother dismisses. “I can go to the store for you.” She relaxes a little, then, eyes warm and smile fond as she looks down at him. “I remember when you were little and you’d get sick -- you would refuse to eat anything except tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“That sounds like heaven right now, honestly,” Blaine sighs, letting his head drop back down against the pillow.

His eyes flutter shut at the press of her lips against his forehead. “Rest,” she instructs quietly. “I’ll go to the store and pick up some things and make you something when I get back.”

“Thank you,” Blaine mumbles sleepily.

“Thank _you_ ,” she says softly. “I know you’re an adult and that you need your own space, Blaine, but I _am_ your mother. It’s a natural instinct to want to take care of you.”

“You can’t always do that,” Blaine argues, fighting sleep just enough to make his point. “I have to be able to take care of myself, Mom.”

“I know,” she says amicably, tucking him in more snugly under the blanket. “But right now, you’re letting me take care of you. Thank you.”

Blaine lets out a sound that he hopes resembles a laugh. “You’re thanking me for letting you take care of me?”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s nice to feel needed, Blaine.”

He pokes his hand out from under the blanket, blindly groping for her hand until he finds it. “You’re not needed,” he says gently, “but you’re wanted.”

And at the very least, Blaine knows how that feels, to want someone to want him. He’s spent the last ten years hidden away from the rest of the world because its message to him had been loud and clear: it _didn’t_ want him, not as he came, and Blaine took the words and injuries to heart and bone and tucked himself in the safety of home and predictability.

After so many years with walls keeping him apart, Blaine is ready to break them down.

With his mother’s hand clasped firmly in his, Blaine wishes he could tell her that he’s doing just that.

* * * * *


	6. March

** March **

_Monday, 2 March 2020_

Blaine stands in the hallway just outside of the door of suite D and looks inside.

Empty.

He’s mostly grateful for that. He’d left early in the hopes that he’d arrive early and avoid several pairs of eyes turning to look at him all at once. But being this early also means that the group leader isn’t here either, apparently, and Blaine’s not comfortable going in alone. He considers calling the intergroup office Tracie had set him up with to verify his information, but before he can find the number in his phone --

“Hi there.”

Blaine blinks up, a little startled, and exhales slowly, smiling politely at the owner of the voice. It’s a tall, built gentleman with blonde hair who looks to be around Cooper’s age, and he returns Blaine’s smile with ease. “Hi,” Blaine answers, a little breathless. “I, um, I’m supposed to be looking for Steve? For --”

The man smiles and nods, holding out his hand. “That’d be me. You must be Blaine. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”

“No, I found it okay,” Blaine assures him, shaking his hand. “I wanted to show up a little early.”

“Perfectly fine,” Steve says warmly, digging his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door. “Would you like to help me set up?”

“Sure,” Blaine agrees amicably. Steve seems friendly enough, for the thirty seconds Blaine has known him, but it’s enough to put some of his nerves at ease. Becoming comfortable around the leader is something Blaine feels like he can do. And he’s hoping that he can do it quickly enough to adjust to the rest of the group arriving, whoever might show up tonight. It’d be easiest if everyone arrived one at a time in intervals long enough for him to be comfortable, but that’s not going to happen. Blaine doesn’t have control over anyone else in the group, not in what they say or do or think of him. And it’s not that he needs the control over them, necessarily. It’s just -- being around this many new people in such an intimate setting all at once makes him anxious. It’s too much unpredictability in one tiny conference room. It’s change.

In, out. Change is not necessarily a bad thing. The people here are supposed to understand him.

Together, Blaine and Steve turn on the lights and start to pull down some chairs, arranging them in a circle at Steve’s instruction. “Most people feel more comfortable being able to see the rest of the group at all times,” Steve explains. “It doesn’t force eye contact, if that makes you uncomfortable, but at least you know where you are in relation to everyone else.” Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile. He wishes he had his camera with him right now. The images taking shape in his mind fit so well with the photographs he’s been taking lately. He’s thinking of starting a collection with them and titling it _Perception_. He thinks it’d make Tracie laugh.

Steve invites him to sit down while he finishes setting up. Blaine sinks down into a plastic chair and runs his palms over his thighs before gripping his knees tightly. His fingers itch to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone just for something to do, but he feels like that would be rude, so his hands stay put. In, out, and Blaine waits.

He doesn’t have to wait very long before he hears the echo of someone’s high heels in hallway. He sits up a little taller and straightens his bowtie. In, out. The footsteps come closer until the owner finally comes into view, a petite, put-together woman with ginger hair. Her eyes go almost comically wide when she sees Blaine sitting there, and Blaine relaxes almost instantly. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. She looks like he feels, and already that makes him feel better. Tracie was right. The people here could possibly understand him.

Blaine is not alone.

It takes Blaine a few seconds to realize that he’s staring at her. Flustered, he drops his gaze and zeroes in on the details of her attire. Her outfit reminds him of his mother, actually, pencil skirt and cozy cardigan, string of pearls and a fascinating broach and a pair of perfectly polished heels. Most of this woman’s color palette is full of pastels, though, colors his mother doesn’t normally gravitate toward. She also looks younger than his mother by at least ten years, though she looks older than Steve and Cooper. And she looks... _clean_ , strikingly so, and Blaine shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

The woman barely acknowledges Steve’s friendly wave. She straightens like Blaine’s mother does, bringing herself to her full height, which still isn’t very tall, and walks briskly toward the circle. She chooses the chair completely opposite of Blaine in the circle but doesn’t sit down. She reaches into her purse instead, hand digging around for a minute before she unearths a small package. It’s not until she opens the package that Blaine realizes what’s inside, and as she seals it and deposits it carefully back in her purse, Blaine wonders why she carries around a package of wet wipes.

He gets his answer almost instantly as the woman bends over and presses the wet wipe to the chair, clearly taking care to make sure her skin doesn’t touch the chair before she’s cleaned it off. Blaine doesn’t want to stare -- it’d be obvious, not to mention rude -- but he can’t bring himself to look away, not when she’s one of only three people in the entire room. He finds himself fascinated by her methodical approach and compromises by watching her in his peripheral vision. She’s meticulous, even cleaning the legs of the chair with diligence, and it takes Blaine a moment to realize that he even identifies with her approach. He didn’t clean his chair -- he didn’t feel the need to -- but it almost seems routine for her.

Blaine thrives on routine.

It’s several long, quiet, awkward moments before anyone new comes into the room. Blaine can feel the woman looking at him every couple of moments, but she doesn’t try to strike up a conversation, and Blaine finds himself grateful for it. He’s not sure he’s ready just yet. The next arrival is an older gentlemen with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses, blazer wrinkled and book in hand. He settles down in the seat to Blaine’s left. Slowly, more people start to trickle in: a young girl with dark hair and a pixie haircut who takes the seat to Blaine’s right; an older, asian gentleman closer to Steve’s age in a comfortable looking hoodie who settles down to the right of the woman with red hair. Blaine feels simultaneously relieved and anxious when Steve finally sits down with the rest of the group, two seats to Blaine’s right. There’s an empty chair to Steve’s right and a plethora of chairs still stacked against the wall, and the small turnout leaves Blaine wondering what their usual attendance record is like.

“Hi,” a breathless voice greets from the doorway. Blaine blinks up at the voice along with Steve, brain momentarily short-circuiting at the sight that greets him. That’s _Marley_ , Marley Rose, teenage pop star -- or at least, she was a teenager when she first broke into the industry. She’s around twenty now, if he remembers correctly. Her presence makes Blaine feel off-kilter. He had no idea he’d be attending a group with someone like her, someone _famous_. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable, exactly -- or at least not any more uncomfortable than he feels about sharing his secrets with the rest of the people in the room. If anything, she probably has more reason to be wary about sharing secrets with anyone. And if anything, her being here makes Blaine feel... normal, which is a strange feeling to have considering that she’s a _celebrity_. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, snapping Blaine out of his shock. “I hope I’m not too late.”

“Not at all,” Steve says warmly, gesturing the seat to his right. “We haven’t quite started yet.”

Marley slides into the open seat and sets her purse down on the floor, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. She looks by far the most comfortable person in the room, smiling easily. It strikes Blaine as a little odd, but he doesn’t comment. Marley glances over at the red-headed woman to her right and mouths _hi_ at her, wiggling her fingers in a friendly wave. The woman, much to Blaine’s surprise, seems to relax a little, and smiles back at her.

“Good evening, everyone,” Steve greets warmly. “For those of you who are unfamiliar with the way this works, don’t worry about it. Every support group operates differently. Here, we try to avoid practices that can potentially make people anxious or uncomfortable.” His eyes flick around the group, lingering on Blaine for an extra couple of seconds. “Introductions are something we normally do, but as we have new members, I’ll start and we’ll go counter-clockwise so that some of our regulars can go first. I’m Steve.”

“Marley.”

“Emma.”

“Ken.”

“Mark.”

“Blaine.”

“Amelia.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “a few general rules and guidelines before get into things. One -- everything that is seen, said, heard, or done in this room and in these meetings stays confidential within the group. Please respect the privacy of everyone here. Two -- this is not therapy. Groups like this can often be helpful for people who are already seeing a therapist, but you work with your therapist on your own time. I’m not here to be your therapist. That’s not my role or function here. Three -- it’s not yours, either. People will share personal information in here, and it will often sound like people are searching for advice or guidance or answers to questions. As a general rule, we advise against advisement,” Steve says with a wry grin in the red-headed woman’s -- Emma’s -- direction. “Four -- you’re allowed to ask questions if you’re having trouble comprehending something and you need something clarified so you can understand what’s being said, but try to limit your questions to those of that nature. Outside of that, outside of group, you’re allowed to socialize and talk about whatever you like, should you make friends here, but the confidentiality rule still applies.”

Steve doesn’t talk much after that. The other members start to take turns sharing, and while Blaine listens, he also gets transfixed by details while they talk. Marley starts, and it occurs to Blaine, then, that she must be a regular. She’s fallen into a leadership role with ease, it seems, volunteering information to break the ice. She seems focused on her own details, too; she opens with a brief explanation of being treated for an eating disorder but follows it up with descriptions of her recent eating habits and a list of the things she’s had today. She likes having the accountability, she says, and while Blaine can easily identify with the penchant for lists and details and desire for control over something, it’s her hands he focuses on while she talks. Her wrists are thin enough that he can see the bones and her fingers are a little scarred, a detail Blaine is sure is unnoticeable to most people.

Around the group they go, most people feeling comfortable enough as the evening goes on to speak up. And with each new person and each new story, Blaine finds himself drawn to the activity of their hands. Ken’s, for example, stay tucked in the pocket of his hoodie for the entire meeting, while Mark’s reach up to take his glasses off and then stay folded and still the rest of the night. Amelia hardly says two words together all night, visibly shy, her arms wrapped around herself as if she’s cold. Blaine considers more than once offering her his jacket.

And again, Blaine is drawn to Emma. She seems reluctant to share but does it anyway. She’s a high school guidance counselor, which makes Steve’s earlier remark make more sense now. The rest of her words come much more slowly and with much more resistance, which is a little perplexing to Blaine. He would’ve guessed earlier that Emma was more of a regular, but her behavior now seems much more like what he would expect his own to be tonight, new and unfamiliar and uncomfortable. She’s much more willing to explain that she’s adjusting to new medication than she is talking about what she’s taking it for (though it isn’t that hard to deduce, honestly-- Emma has obsessive compulsive disorder written all over her). She spends most of her time talking about finding ways to cope outside of her medication -- cooking amongst them -- and Blaine’s fingers twitch on his knees. She’s a little... perplexing, honestly, but Blaine identifies with her more easily the longer she talks. Emma reminds him both of the pieces he used to be made of and then discarded, and the pieces he’s rediscovering now and trying to fit together. Her hands twist and caress each other as she talks, and it takes Blaine a while to realize that she’s keeping track and counting how many times she’s done it.

In, out, and Blaine takes Emma’s guidance.

“I’m Blaine,” he says again, perhaps a little unnecessarily. “I, um --” He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck and looks over at Steve, hesitant. “I’m not really sure what to say.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable sharing,” Steve says encouragingly. “You’ve had the opportunity to hear others speak. You can use what they’ve said as an example or template, if that helps.”

Blaine looks over at Emma and remembers his sessions with Tracie. “I’m a composer,” he says finally, mouth twitching into a smile. “I make music for a living.” Marley perks up visibly at that, which makes Blaine blush and look back down at his lap. “I, uh, I’ve been dealing with -- living with anxiety for the last ten years.” Slow exhale, palms against his thighs. “I’m on medication for it, and I have panic attacks sometimes, but not very often.” It’s an exercise in control not to let his hands fidget while he talks, and he tries to focus on that rather than how people are reacting to his words. “They’re, um -- they’re the result of an incident that was pretty traumatizing for me. And I --” Blaine closes his eyes. In, out. They’ll understand. He just has to keep talking. He just has to keep moving. “I didn’t want to be around people who were capable of what they did to me, especially when I think about _why_ they did it.” He pauses, then, expecting the prying question asking him to elaborate, but it doesn’t come, and the room stays silent, waiting for him to speak. “It kept me inside,” he says, feeling a little bolstered, “and away from the rest of the world. And with one brief exception, I just... stayed inside. For --” His words catch in his throat, heart pounding, and he has to swallow thickly just to speak again. “For ten years.”

“Until now?” Steve prompts.

Blaine blinks up and over at him, a little distracted but grateful for the question. “Um, no,” he answers awkwardly, finally giving himself permission to rub at the back of his neck again. “No, things started changing back in November, just after Thanksgiving. And I’ve been really glad for it, even if I’m not happy with the way it came about. I just --” He stalls out, palms suddenly sweaty and breathing a little shallow. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m still getting used to being around new people again and I don’t -- I don’t normally talk about this with anyone other than my therapist.”

“That’s okay,” Steve assures him. “You don’t have to share anymore tonight if you don’t want to, only what you’re comfortable with.”

Blaine swallows and nods, leaning back in his chair and relaxing a little. “I think I’m done for the night.” Steve continues talking, redirecting the focus and readying to bring the meeting to a close. Blaine feels like he should feel bad because he didn’t talk nearly as much as some of the others tonight (although he definitely talked more than Amelia, but that wasn’t particularly difficult to do, given how little she said), but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to feel bad about making any amount of progress, regardless of how little or inconsequential it may seem.

For so long, Blaine had thought that staying inside and separating himself from the rest of the world was handling his mental illness. And it was, in a sort of twisted, backward way, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t everything he’s done in the last two months. It wasn’t a challenge to stay inside. Tracie was right -- this isn’t always going to be easy, if his stilted words and shallow breathing and hammering heart are anything to go by. It’s going to be a challenge to relearn how to socialize with people other than his parents and therapist and boyfriend. It’s going to be a challenge to bring himself to talk about it with people other than Tracie, and he knows that firsthand from his experiences with his parents over the last ten years.

Tonight is the first time that he’s really realizing that change isn’t sudden. It doesn’t happen overnight. And logically, he knows that, he’s always known that, but it manifested itself for him tonight. Change also doesn’t mean recovery. It doesn’t mean he’s going to get better. It doesn’t mean that he’s going to -- that he’s going to be _fixed_ , because he doesn’t like looking at himself like that. It’s why he’d corrected himself earlier and told the rest of the group that he’d been living with anxiety instead of dealing with it, because that was close to the actual truth and probably always will be. Tracie had said that his illness didn’t define him, and it doesn’t, but it’s not something that’s going to just magically go away. He isn’t going to be cured. In the beginning, it had been what he wanted, before he’d started taking medication. He’d just wanted to stop feeling the way he did. He wanted to be normal again. After ten years, two different medications, and a really good therapist, it’s not what he wants anymore. He wants to be able to manage his illness a little better, certainly, but he wants change. He’d been so sure, back on Black Friday, that he’d left himself tucked behind the walls of the apartment. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that the opposite was true.

As the meeting comes to a close, Blaine looks around the group and sees pieces of himself looking back.

* * * * *

_Monday, 9 March 2020_

Blaine remembers the “it gets better” campaign.

The thing always was, though, that it never got better for him. If it did, the difference was marginal and hardly noticeable. It didn’t get better. It got worse, and then it got... handled. And really, that’s what life inside of the walls of whatever place he called home was for ten years, full of ways to handle the trauma and the anxiety and the panic. He developed his coping mechanisms over time and never all at once, much the same way he’s learning change is now. First it was finding the right medication. Then it was Tracie to help him sort through his thoughts and feelings and hang-ups. He discovered his love for baking and the calm it brings him when he was sixteen. And his music -- well, his music has always been a part of him.

The thing is, now, his coping mechanisms are getting better. His arsenal is expanding with his borders, and even though there isn’t a metaphorical ‘best’ he can achieve, things are, admittedly, getting better. He’s not necessarily less anxious, but he’s constantly putting himself in situations where his anxiety could give way to an anxiety or panic attack, and the fact that he’s having fewer of them than he could is encouraging. He’d even talked a little more in group tonight, given more details and insight into his life. He’s fairly sure that he smiled like an idiot the entire time he talked about Kurt, but he didn’t care. Even though it’s only his second week attending, Blaine is adapting quickly enough to realize that the people in group take the rules fairly seriously. Tracie had been right -- he doesn’t feel judged here, not even in the silence or inquisitive expressions on people’s faces. And with each week that he sees the same faces and gains insight into their lives, the puzzle pieces start to come into focus, edges a little more defined.

Tonight, his anxiety stems from the piece of folded up paper in his hand. He’s spent most of the meeting trying not to toy with it to keep it in decent shape, his stomach twisting in knots at the thought of what he’s planning to do. Part of him wishes he’d come up with the plan earlier on, or maybe later, just so he could talk to Tracie about it. But part of change is learning to deal with timing, and he doesn’t want to have to run to Tracie just because he’s anxious. He knows that she’ll take his call, if it’s an emergency, but this isn’t even close. This is -- this is an invitation, for crying out loud, and he tries not to laugh at the irony.

There’s a part of him, though, however quiet, that knows that his anxiety is warranted. Kurt is usually the one initiating their outings, and Blaine doesn’t really count the invitation he’d extended toward his mother as the same thing as what he’s about to do. So really, the last time he’d ask someone to partner up with him at something was over ten years ago, and while the person had said yes, the event hadn’t ended well.

He pockets the paper when the group disbands and helps Steve put the chairs away, mostly because it’s polite but also because it buys him a little time. He tries to be quick about it, though, and in the end, he ends up rushing out the door and chasing after his quarry down the hall. “Emma!” he calls out breathlessly. “Wait!”

She pauses just shy of the door to the building and turns to face him, hands clasped neatly over the handle of her purse. “Blaine,” she says, polite and a little warm.

He slows to a stop in front of her and takes a second to catch his breath. “Hi.”

She smiles, eyes crinkling a little at the corners. “Hi,” she laughs.

He stops himself from offering his hand to her to shake, knowing the chances of her taking it are slim. In, out. He can do this. “I, um, I know we haven’t really gotten the chance to talk very much, especially outside of group.”

“It’s only your second week,” she says reasonably. “You haven’t really had the opportunity.” There’s something in her eyes when she says it, like she’s speaking to a student in her office, and it makes him feel uncomfortably young. He’s twenty-five, not fourteen, and he has to remind himself of that far more often than he really wants to.

In, out. Blaine digs around in his pocket and unearths the piece of paper he’d brought with him, unfolding it as he talks. “I saw this flier late last week,” he explains, holding it in front of her so she can read it easily in case she doesn’t feel like taking it from him. “There’s a cooking class down at the community center on the last Saturday of every month. And you only pay for the sessions you use on a month-to-month basis, so it’s pretty flexible in terms of scheduling.” He pauses as her eyes scan over the text on the page, giving her time to read and absorb. “And it was something I was interested in -- I’m a decent cook, but I’d like to be better. I’m really more of a baker. And... what you said last week really resonated with me,” he admits quietly. “The whole using cooking as a coping mechanism thing. I do that, too. It keeps my hands busy and my mind focused.” She looks up at him, then, expression a little softer but still apprehensive. “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat, “the class is designed so that you work in pairs, and I thought -- I thought it might be easier if I could pair up with someone I sort of knew instead of some complete stranger.”

She looks back down at the paper again but her eyes don’t move. Blaine shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. “Why not just ask Kurt?” she suggests, looking back up at him.

“O -- oh,” he says faintly, arm finally falling to his side. “It’s just -- I wanted to take them with you. I thought it might be helpful for both of us.” He breaks eye contact with her almost instantly and focuses on folding the flier back up and tucking it in his pocket. “It’s okay, you don’t have to -- just forget I asked.”

“Can I think about it?”

He blinks back up in surprise, heart skipping a beat. “Sure,” he agrees breathlessly. He digs around in his pocket and pulls out the flier quickly, unfolding it. “Do you, um --” He bites his lip and hesitates for a moment before coming up with a solution. “I can send you the information, if you want? Do you have an e-mail address or a phone number?”

“Both,” she laughs. “This is the twenty-first century, Blaine. I may have been born in ‘79, but I am not that old and out of touch.”

He smiles. “Do you have a pen?” She digs around in her purse for one and hands it to him, reciting her e-mail address and phone number for him to write down on the back of the flier. She already has a wet wipe in hand when he gives it back to her and cleans it off before dropping it back in her purse. “Thank you,” he says warmly, folding the flier back up and sticking it in his pocket. “I really appreciate you considering it.”

“Thank _you_.”

“For what?”

“For having me as your first choice.” Blaine smiles and looks away for a moment. Even if Emma doesn’t sign up for classes with him, he’s at least made her feel good by singling her out, and Blaine -- well, Blaine just wants to make art and help people. “Good night, Blaine,” she says, recapturing his attention. “I’ll see you next week?” Blaine nods and offers her a wave as she exits the building. Blaine leans against the wall for a few minutes with an absent smile on his face before he pulls himself together to leave.

In his pocket, Blaine carries a new piece of himself home.

* * * * *

_Monday, 23 March 2020_

It’s Blaine who gets approached after group two weeks later.

He turns around at the sound of a woman’s voice calling out his name -- he thinks it’s Emma, at first, wanting to discuss their plans for going to class on Saturday. He’s surprised and more than a little flustered when he sees Marley approaching him. He tugs at his bowtie nervously as she approaches, a little envious at how she can look so put-together and casually comfortable all at once. He supposes leading a fairly public life has taught her how to use fashion to her advantage, if her side-swept ponytail and off-the-shoulder top are anything to go by. “Hi!” she says brightly, offering her hand. “I know you’ve been here a few weeks, but we haven’t really gotten to talk to each other.”

It’s reminiscent of the way he’d approached Emma two weeks earlier, prefacing the conversation with an awkward and obvious starter. Marley’s delivery seems much more practiced and polished than his own had been, and again, he finds himself envious of her. Still, he defaults to the polite, well-mannered person his parents raised and shakes her hand. “Was there something in particular you wanted, or...?”

Her smile falters, just barely, and it stings Blaine to know that his question has stung her. It’s -- he feels like it’s a valid question, wondering what someone like her wants from someone like him, but that’s probably why she’s taken offense to it. He probably knows more about her than most people do, for all that he still knows very little, and here, in group, she’s just Marley. She saves face quite well, though, probably out of habit by now, and drops his hand. “I actually wanted to talk to you about your work,” she explains. “The first night you were here, you mentioned that you were a composer.”

Blaine remembers how her face had lit up. He also remembers the way he’d blushed. It’s not something he’s particularly proud of. “I am.”

“Is it -- I know we don’t use last names in group,” she says, finally a little awkward, “but I was wondering if I could get yours? I was thinking I might have heard something of yours, and if I haven’t, that I might like to.”

Blaine shifts his weight from one leg to the other and rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s not entirely uncomfortable with giving her the answer she’s looking for, but it also takes away the sense of vague anonymity he gets from being in group. He realizes, then, that Marley has never had that luxury. Both in the treatment facility and here in group, everyone has known her last name. They know who she is, and they know some of her more intimate struggles. Blaine and his work aren’t anywhere close to being as well known as Marley and her work are, so he can only imagine how difficult all of this must be for her. “Anderson.”

Marley beams at him. “I _have_ heard your work,” she says, delighted. “I’ve had it played for me a couple of times when my team and I were shopping around for music for albums. Nothing of yours ever quite fit with what our overall visions ended up being, but I remember always liking what I heard from you.”

His blush is back in full force, and he drops his gaze down to the floor, charmed. “Thank you.”

“You did the score for _Janie’s Garden_ , didn’t you?” she asks. “A couple of years ago?” Blaine can’t help gaping at her a little. _She’s_ fangirling _him_ , and he has no idea what to say to that, so he merely nods, instead, tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. “I’m actually looking for someone to collaborate with,” she admits.

“You’re working on a new album?”

She nods, looking a little uncomfortable again but still relatively composed. “Yeah, I -- I know I haven’t put out anything new in awhile,” she says, the issue of her treatment left unmentioned, “but I feel like the time is right to start working on something new.”

There’s an awkward lull for a moment before Blaine realizes what she’s implying. “Wait, you want to work with _me_?”

She smiles again, bright and radiant. “I would,” she says, “if it’s something you’d be interested in? You wouldn’t have to do a whole lot, if you weren’t up for it, but I figured we could try collaborating and see how well we work together.”

Blaine tries to tamp down the flutter of flattery that beats in his chest at her request. “If you wanted to work with me, why didn’t you just have your people call my agent?”

The smile on her face starts to fade, polite mask slipping into face. She looks disappointed, but only says, “If that’s what you’d prefer. I just -- on the off chance that you were who I thought you were, I wanted to be able to ask you in person.”

And again, he’s reminded of his fumbling attempt to ask Emma to join him for cooking classes. Marley’s singling him out and asking him personally, which he supposes he should be extra flattered by, considering her status. But she isn’t throwing her name or accomplishments around to coerce him into saying yes, which is... kind of refreshing, honestly. It suits her -- or at least, it suits her image. Blaine’s not sure he really knows her well enough yet to know if it suits her, personally.

“Why me?”

The mask slips, just a little, and Blaine wishes he could see beyond the blue of her eyes. “I think you’re really talented,” she says, and that, at least, sounds sincere. “And I have more control over this album -- the sound and the message and the image. I don’t -- I don’t feel different after treatment,” she says awkwardly, looking down at the floor. “Not exactly, anyway. I mean, things are changing constantly -- _I’m_ changing constantly. But I feel like there are still parts of me that are the same, and I’ve never really gotten to show those parts in my music before, you know? They didn’t quite fit the package.”

“And you want me to help you sell a new one?” Blaine guesses.

Marley shakes her head. “No,” she says, looking back up at him. “I don’t want to sell a package at all. That’s kind of the point. I mean, I know I have to, at least a little, but I just -- I want to be _honest_ for a change. It was hard for me to do, before, and --” The mask slips a little more, and her eyes remind him of Kurt. “I feel that, with your music. It feels honest to me. That’s why I wanted to ask you personally. I didn’t want the pretense. I felt like being a little more informal might make it easier for both of us.”

Touched, Blaine finally finds himself seeing beyond the Rose. “I still think we should get in touch with our representation,” he says, “but I’m definitely willing to give it a shot.”

Smile wide, she bounces on the balls of her feet, clearly pleased. She looks so _young_ for a moment that Blaine remembers that he’s five years old than her. “Thank you,” she gushes. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for it, but you’ve been talking a lot more in group, so I thought maybe...”

Blaine smiles and digs in his pocket for his phone. “Here,” he laughs, relaxing a little, “why don’t we exchange information?” He pauses and looks up at her, backtracking a little. “I mean, unless that makes you uncomfortable. I can just give you mine, or --”

“No, this is fine,” she assures him, pulling out her own phone and swapping with him.

“Did you have a particular place you wanted to meet for this?” he asks, typing his information into her phone.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” she says, exchanging phones again. “I wasn’t sure where you might be most comfortable.”

Moved by her consideration, he leans against the wall in the hallway and drops his phone back into his pocket. Casual. He can totally do this. She’s a musician like him. She understands that he might have some limitations. She reminds him of Kurt. She’s Marley Rose. Blaine is not freaking out. He’s not. “Do you, uh, do you have a place here in the city?” he asks, clearing his throat.

She nods and mirrors him, propping herself against the wall comfortably. “It’s just a tiny little studio that I lease on a month-to-month basis. My mom and I live out in Los Angeles. I didn’t spend a whole lot of time here before -- before treatment. I didn’t want to do treatment in California. The idea of it made me feel claustrophobic.” She bites her lip and looks down at the floor. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “That sounded kind of insensitive, didn’t it?”

“No,” Blaine assures her, reaching out to touch her arm. “Don’t apologize. You’re allowed to feel the way you do.” He can feel her gaze shift to where he’s touching her and he yanks his arm back as if he’s been burned. One of the things he remembers from his parents learning how to handle his panic attacks was that the person undergoing an episode might not -- will probably not -- want to be touched, at least not at first. This is different, but it feels the same, and he instantly feels the twist of guilt and shame at being so hypocritically forgetful. She’s smiling when she looks back up at him, though, not quite as brilliantly as before. Still, it causes the knot in Blaine’s gut to uncoil, and he relaxes again, returning her smile. “Do you, um --” He laughs and closes his eyes, looking away for a minute. “Sorry,” he manages, still laughing. “I’m still working on the whole regaining my social skills thing. My conversational skills are kind of rusty.”

“Don’t apologize,” she teases.

In, out. He can totally do this. “Do you have any instruments in your apartment?”

“A keyboard,” she says. “I know it’s not much, but --”

“I have an actual piano,” he offers. “You could come over to my place and we could try working on something there.”

Again, she bites her lip, this time giving him a once over. “That won’t make you uncomfortable?”

_Limitations are important_ , Kurt had said.

_Trust yourself and your instincts_ , Tracie had said.

Blaine shakes his head and offers her a warm smile. “I’m doing better. I mean, I still feel most comfortable at home, obviously, but you being there won’t make me uncomfortable. I started letting people in before I started going out.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll call you, then, and we can set something up? What days work best for you?”

“Probably Fridays?” Blaine guesses, nose scrunching a little as he thinks it over. Sundays are usually reserved for his parents. They have group on Mondays. He sees Tracie on Tuesdays. Kurt has Wednesdays and Thursdays off, and even though the cooking classes with Emma are only once a month, he feels like it occupies Saturdays. Fridays used to be his busiest day, before. But the things he’d filled his day with then are things he can do almost any day of the week, now, and even though he thrives on routine and structure, he’s trying to learn to be a little more flexible. He has to be able to start learning to deal with the unpredictability of the rest of the world again, and he can’t rely on routine too much if he wants to be able to do that. “Fridays are good,” he answers, a little more definitively. “I can probably do more, though. It just depends. We can sit down and work out a schedule, if you want.” In, out, and this is exactly what he was trying to avoid. He has no idea how much time she has for something like this, but she’s specifically said that she was looking for the whole arrangement to be more informal and casual. Creating a work schedule is kind of the opposite of that. “Or we can just wing it.”

Marley laughs. “Let’s wing it, for now,” she agrees, teasing him a little. “I’ll call you and maybe we can pick a time for Friday, to start, and figure things out from there.” She hesitates for a minute, seemingly debating something, before she offers her hand for him to shake. “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

And as sincere as it sounds, it’s also a little formal, a handshake, but it’s not at the same time. It’s not a contract or a signature or a sticky red line between them, so Blaine takes her hand gamely and offers her a smile. “Me too.”

She leaves an invisible trail of half-finished music in her wake as she leaves, another silent score, and Blaine picks up the notes on his own way out for a half-finished piece tucked away in his desk drawer.

* * * * *

_Saturday, 28 March 2020_

Blaine is, admittedly, a stress-baker.

The first year he’d been on medication had been hard on him. He’d been prescribed anti-depressants and Xanax at first, neither of which had been the right fit for him. He’d felt awful on the anti-depressants, and while the Xanax had worked quickly to calm his panic attacks, it didn’t last as long as he wanted it to, minimizing its effectiveness. He’d been fifteen when he’d been switched over to Klonopin, a benzodiazepine that took a little longer to work but managed his anxiety better and kept him calm longer after a panic attack. The adjustment had been difficult, but he’d been grateful for the change once he’d gotten used to it.

By that time, he’d resigned himself to the use of prescription drugs to help him manage his anxiety. It worked for him, to a certain degree, but he also knew that his medication could also potentially be habit-forming. And the frustrating thing is that it _is_ habit because he takes it every day, but there’s always room within his prescribed dosage for a little extra if he needs it. It’s that he tries to avoid, the extra dose. It makes him lethargic and sleepy because he doesn’t need it often, and while that’s annoying, it’s not the part that bothers him the most. He’s accepted needing the medication, but he likes to replace the potential extra dose with other coping mechanisms, if he can help it.

It’s partly how he’d fallen in love with baking. Everything feels a little more manageable with dough in his hands, soft and malleable. He works out the nerves in his hands at he kneads and clears his mind so that he can fill it with measurements. It’s another form of art for him, being able to create something beautiful (and delicious) out of several smaller components.

Admittedly, using baking as a coping mechanism has blown up in his face a couple of times -- sometimes literally. The worst had been the day he’d moved out of his parents’ house and into his own apartment. He’d unpacked his kitchen first while sending his parents on a grocery run to get him the supplies he needed. He’d stayed up well into the night and ended up with one pie, two kinds of cookies, cinnamon twists, tarts, two kinds of brownies, three different kinds of bread, and three different kinds of cheesecake.

And biscotti. He’d made biscotti, too.

The whole thing had been kind of an unmitigated baking disaster.

The apartment had smelled like sugar for a week.

The thing is, Blaine hadn’t been lying when he’d told Emma that he wanted to use the classes to be a better cook. Yes, he wants to be able to expand his abilities so that he has more resources for his coping mechanism, but the classes are a something new, and they’re at a rare enough interval that he probably won’t feel overwhelmed by them.

He can’t say the same for Emma.

In hindsight, he feels like he should’ve seen this coming. When he’d first seen the flier and thought of Emma, he’d thought of her admission that she used cooking as a way to cope with her OCD, that it had helped her get through her divorce. And while Blaine had identified with that, he’d also seen it as one of his first opportunities to really help someone else. If he gets a little more skilled in the kitchen, that’s a nice bonus, and --

Well, Blaine would be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping to get a friend out of this.

He’d had high hopes for these classes. Instead, their first class as partners is turning out to be one of the most awkward experiences he’s ever had. The instructions seem easy enough to follow, but Emma waits for him to make the first move. He supposes that it’s only fair -- after all, he was the one who asked her to accompany him. He organizes their ingredients and supplies into something a little more sensical first before turning to her to ask for something. The question dies on his tongue, though, when he sees her biting her lip and looking over his set-up. “Is something wrong?”

She inhales sharply and makes an odd, aborted movement, like she wants to shake her head and then changes her mind halfway through. “It’s just -- I wouldn’t have done it like that.”

Blaine glances over at their supplies before turning his attention back to Emma. “You can rearrange them if you want,” he offers. “I don’t mind.”

Her exhale is just as sharp and is accompanied by another awkward movement; her hands twitch in front of her, like she wants to reach out immediately and take him up on the offer. “Can I just... tell you how I would prefer it and have you do it?”

Blaine blinks a little, caught off guard by the request. “Um, sure.” They spend another five minutes like that, Emma’s voice guiding Blaine’s hands until everything is the way she wants it. It’s all a little nonsensical to Blaine, considering the fact that they’re just going to have to open and move everything around in a minute anyway, but he also recognizes that he can’t expect Emma to just deal with it, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to him. She may be getting help for her OCD, but it’s something she’s learned to live with for a long time, and habits can’t be broken in one day. Structure and routine is important to her, too, and Blaine doesn’t want to disrupt her from her needs and rituals before she’s really ready for it. Part of him feels a little guilty for being so selective in remembering her confessions. She’d also made a point to say that she was just starting to take medication, and Blaine knows from personal experience just how difficult that adjustment can be.

“Okay,” he sighs, refocusing, “we need to cut the zucchini into thin slices -- can you hand me the straight-edge paring knife, please? Actually,” he says, furrowing his brow in confusion a little as he looks over the recipe and instructions, “can you hand me the regular paring knife as well? I’m not sure which one will work better. I might just ask, unless you have -- Emma?”

She’s eyeing the set of knives like she’s afraid of them. Blaine’s eyes fall to her hands, watching her hands twist and caress each other over and over again. Blaine bites his lip, wondering if he should wait before speaking again. It’s only a moment or two before she stops, exhaling slowly. She’s the one to break the silence, and she doesn’t meet his eyes when he speaks. “Please don’t make me,” she whispers.

“Emma?”

“I didn’t bring anything with me,” she says, voice starting to come out uneven. “I was running late and I didn’t bring any gloves or anything to clean with and I can’t -- I’m still trying to adjust,” she confesses, and _oh_ , she’s trembling, eyes wide. “I don’t know where anything has been and I can’t clean it myself and I just -- I just --”

“Okay, okay, hey, it’s okay,” Blaine says softly, settling down on his stool and leaning awkwardly on the counter so she has a better chance of actually seeing him. His hand reaches for hers without thinking, but he pulls it back instantly. She doesn’t want to touch anything -- human contact is probably included in that. Her breathing is coming quicker now, her eyes wet and Blaine recognizes the signs. “Emma,” he says, firm and clear. “Emma, can you look at me?” It takes her a moment, but she eventually flicks her gaze up to meet his. He can see the panic there, in her eyes and all over her face, and he has to take his own deep breath to prevent himself from reacting. “Do you think you’re going to have a panic attack?” She opens her mouth to answer and looks like she can’t breathe. Blaine reacts on instinct. “Try and take a deep breath for me, okay?” She bites her lip and closes her eyes, and it takes her a few tries, but she eventually manages it, again and again and again, and Blaine finds himself grateful that it’s over before it really had the chance to begin. Blaine waits for her to open her eyes before he speaks again. “You don’t have to do this, okay?” he says gently. “You can go home if you want --”

Emma shakes her head quickly. “No,” she insists. “I want to do this with you. I want to participate. I just -- I can’t, actively. Not today.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, “so we can just try again next month.”

“Can we just... stay?” she pleads quietly. “I’ve spent so long running away from my problems and I don’t -- I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m _trying_ , Blaine, I just -- this is all I can manage right now.”

_Trying_.

His heart aches for her because _oh_ , how he can identify with that. They’re at such different places in learning how to really deal with their mental illnesses beyond just finding ways to cope and live with them. She’s lived with her OCD much longer than he’s lived with his anxiety and has only very recently started getting treated for it. He remembers what it’d been like, in the beginning, how disorienting and terrifying and frustrating the adjustments were.

It got worse before it got better.

More than anything, Blaine just wants to wrap his arms around her -- this woman who is almost old enough to be his mother, this woman who is a high school guidance counselor, _god_ \-- and tell her that it _does_ get better. But he can’t, no matter how much he wants to. She wouldn’t welcome his touch, he knows that. It would only make things worse. And he can’t just tell her what it took him ages to work out. It’s something she has to come to terms with in her own time.

Change doesn’t happen overnight.

Blaine slides the printed out sheet of instructions across the counter and offers her a tentative smile. “How about you lead,” he suggests, “and I follow?”

* * * * *


	7. April

** April **

_Wednesday, 1 April 2020_

It starts raining in April.

Rain means a lot of things. It means the end of winter and the start of spring, a cleansing before the rebirth. It means Blaine has to invest in an [umbrella](http://oi42.tinypic.com/20i9uft.jpg) because he’s outside every day now, even with the rain. It means that he spends less time with his boyfriend outside and more time in his apartment because Kurt spends half of his days in the rain now.

It means that the world is changing, and Blaine gets to change with it.

Today, he meets Kurt for lunch at a tiny little bistro four or five blocks away from his apartment and shares his umbrella on the walk home, the pair of them wrapped up in keys and notes and melodies. They spend half of their hurried walk back to Blaine’s apartment laughing and only end up a little damp, at least until they reach the bench outside of the building. Kurt tugs on Blaine’s arm to get him to halt, and the resulting kiss they share under the umbrella is a flicker of warmth in a world that is damp and cold. Blaine grins when they pull apart, breath spiraling between them, and laughs in confusion when Kurt takes the umbrella from him and collapses it. “What are you doing?” Blaine asks, raising his voice a little so that Kurt can hear him. “We’re going to get _soaked_.”

Kurt finishes wrapping the tie around the umbrella and hangs the looped string around his wrist before looking back up at Blaine. “You live right upstairs,” Kurt throws back, laughing, “and I have always wanted to do this.” Blaine’s obvious question of _do what_ dies on his lips as Kurt recaptures them with his own, fisting a hand in Blaine’s lapel. It takes Blaine a minute to get used to, the distraction of the rain around him and on him and in his ears and his hair, god, his hair is going to be a disaster. But Blaine can’t find it in him to care, because Kurt is warm and his face is wet and Blaine is so _lost_ to him, this man who always seems to find him.

Dating Kurt isn’t all that different from being friends with Kurt. They still do most of the same things, meet for meals and hang out in Blaine’s apartment and take ridiculous pictures with Blaine’s camera. They haven’t been to another show yet but they’ve gone to the movies a couple of times, a second first for Blaine that he wasn’t particularly preoccupied with until Kurt had caught both Blaine’s attention and his lips about a third of the way into the film and hadn’t relinquished them until the credits started to roll. And even though Blaine is twenty-five, that night, he’d felt fourteen.

The thing is, _dating_ Kurt is a whole lot different than being just friends with him. It means that they’re both a little more uninhibited around each other, not bothering to take care in hiding every sideways glance or appreciative smile. It means that they’re almost always touching, tactile and affectionate and alive, the contact and current constant. It means a kiss hello and a kiss goodbye and a thousand kisses between, again and again and again until Blaine’s heart is hammering in his chest for reasons entirely unrelated to his anxiety.

Into the building and up the stairs and into the apartment, they’re both a little more wet than they’d like to be on their outer layers. Jackets and sweaters and blazers come off in the kitchen, hung up to dry. Blaine takes a few minutes to make them both a cup of tea. Kurt’s arms wrap around Blaine’s waist from behind, chin hooking over Blaine’s shoulder, and their lips draw together like magnets. They pull apart only because they have to, the sound of the tea kettle whistling bringing their intimacy to a pause.

They take their tea into the living room and turn on the television, settling in comfortably to watch a movie. Kurt curls into his side as they watch and warm and partake of their tea, and Blaine lets the combined warmth seep into his bones. It only takes about a third of the film to finish their tea, and Kurt rests his head on Blaine’s shoulder once they’ve set their empty mugs down on the coffee table next to the box of photographs Blaine’s recently developed and is waiting to organize into a scrapbook. It’s not long before Kurt’s lips drop a few kisses along Blaine’s jaw, tapering off after a few minutes before picking up again. It feels _nice_ , the casual and intimate affection, and Blaine relaxes against him, eyes trained on the television.

“Blaine,” Kurt murmurs into his ear after a while.

“Hmm?”

Kurt pulls away a little, lips still lingering close. “Not to sound like a teenager or anything, but I’ve been trying to get you to make out with me for like twenty minutes.”

Blaine blinks over at him, startled and a little more alert. Kurt arches his eyebrows and smiles, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. His amusement makes Blaine relax again, a playful smile lighting up his own face. “You know, all you had to do was _ask_ ,” Blaine teases, scooting a little closer, fingers dancing down the buttons of Kurt’s vest. “Not that you need to.”

Kurt takes the cue as permission and kisses him a little more firmly than normally, a clear eagerness behind the kiss that shocks and overloads Blaine’s senses for a few seconds. A molding of lips, a drag of teeth, a glide of tongue and Blaine absolutely can’t hold back the moan that escapes him. Kurt’s turning up the heat so _fast_ today, every sharp intake of breath leaving Blaine dizzy with want. With Kurt’s hands and lips and everything near him and on him and all around him, Blaine feels both anchored and lost.

Kurt trails wet kisses up Blaine’s jaw to his ear, hand curving up and around to the back of Blaine’s neck. Kurt shifts closer, causing their knees to knock against each other. Blaine’s breath comes out heavy and uneven, heart pounding and hands trembling. He’s had a month and a half to get used to this, the touch, the intimacy, the press of lips. But it’s still exhilarating, being wanted like this, being treated like this, and his breath catches in his chest when Kurt’s free hand rests on Blaine’s thigh, warm and heavy. Blaine’s hands spasm forward, fisting in Kurt’s shirt. Kurt drags his lips center again and kisses Blaine hard on the mouth, body tipping forward with the inadvertent pull of Blaine’s hands. Down, down, down, Blaine’s head hits the pillow that’s propped up against the arm of the couch. Down, down, down, Kurt’s lips leave a damp trail down Blaine’s neck, teeth dragging over Blaine’s Adam’s apple. Down, down, down, Kurt’s hands skim down Blaine’s side, tugging at the material of Blaine’s polo to pull it out of Blaine’s jeans. Down, down, down, Kurt’s fingers fumble with the button on Blaine’s jeans as he moves back up for more tingling kisses. Button undone and fingers fumbling with the zipper and Blaine struggles to breathe because he has _no_ idea what he’s doing, he’s never done this before and he doesn’t know how Kurt will react to this and Blaine feels like he’s going to do something wrong and he doesn’t have any control over it and --

“ _Stop_ ,” he gasps, pressing a hand flat against Kurt’s chest. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Kurt pulls back a little, trying to catch his breath, and braces an arm on either side of Blaine to prop himself up. Blaine closes his eyes and props himself up on his elbows, breathing hard and too-fast. “It’s okay,” Kurt says breathlessly. “We can slow down, we don’t have to --” Blaine doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence. His heart is beating so fast he feels like he’s going to throw up and he’s overwarm and his arms are trembling and -- “Are you... having a panic attack?” Blaine nods, hardly able to breathe, and instantly, he feels Kurt pull away. “Sit up,” Kurt instructs gently. “Hands on your abdomen.” Blaine moves his shaking hands over his abdomen and tries to focus on the movement, up, in, down, out. “You’re breathing,” Kurt reminds him. Up, in, down, out. “You’re breathing.” Up, in --

“This isn’t working,” Blaine gasps. His eyes flutter open, vision a little blurry, and he forces himself to lift a suddenly very heavy hand to grasp at Kurt’s arm. “In -- in my bathroom,” he stammers, swallowing thickly, “in the medicine cabinet -- there’s a prescription bottle of Klonopin. Can you -- can you bring it to me?” he pleads. “With a glass of water, maybe?”

“Okay,” Kurt says, quiet and unsure. “Are you --” He stops and moves Blaine’s hand from his arm back to its resting place on Blaine’s abdomen. “Breathe,” Kurt reminds him. “Just... breathe until I get back.” Kurt’s up and gone, moving through the apartment quickly. He’s only gone for a minute but it feels much longer to Blaine, who feels like he’s simultaneously drowning and floating. He can’t seem to stop trembling, and he presses his hands harder against his abdomen, trying to keep all of the pieces of him together. Finally, there’s a weight in front of him again, and Blaine has never been so grateful to hear the rattle of pills in the bottle. “How many?” Kurt asks, twisting the cap open.

“Just one,” Blaine says, holding out a cupped hand for Kurt to drop it into. The pill makes contact with his skin, and that alone brings him comfort, anchoring him. He takes his pill, hand shaking as he takes the water glass from Kurt. Kurt’s hand hovers just over Blaine’s as he takes a sip but Blaine can’t find it in him to care. It’s an echo of how he felt earlier, before the anxiety and the panic, the appreciation of being treated this way, of being taken care of. He calms, just a little, and lets Kurt take the glass back as Blaine swallows his pill.

It takes several long, agonizing minutes for Blaine’s breathing to even _begin_ to even out, and it takes even longer for the trembling in his hands to ebb. Neither of them look each other in the eye while they sit in the silence and wait. Kurt’s hands are there for the taking, if Blaine wants them, but he can’t bring himself to move his arms from where they’re wrapped around himself. There’s so much new thrumming just beneath his skin that he feels like he doesn’t have room for more, not without the right knowledge and tools, not without help. He could ask for help -- he _could_. Kurt has always been willing to help, even when Blaine hasn’t necessarily asked for it. All Blaine has to do is _say something_ \-- _I’ve never done this before_ \-- and it’ll be out there in the open. It would be so much easier, then, to tell Kurt about everything else, but he can’t. Blaine can’t say anything at all, not with the way his tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

And, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s just not ready.

He wants to be able to say something, anything, but it’s taken everything out of him just to be calm again, and with the extra dose comes the sudden sleepiness settling in. This is the change that’s abrupt and jarring, a drastic difference from the habit he’s formed over the years. He settles back down and rests his head against the throw pillow, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. He’s vaguely aware of Kurt shifting next to him, moving to sit on the floor next to Blaine. He jolts a little at the touch of a hand on his arm, arms squeezing the pillow tight. “Not okay?” Kurt asks softly.

Blaine shakes his head, mouth feeling clumsy as he tries to regain his speech. “‘s okay,” he mumbles, breathing slowing down. Back Kurt’s hand goes, knuckles brushing lightly against Blaine’s skin as he strokes Blaine’s arm soothingly. The lines are blurred now, limitations unclear with the progression of their relationship -- or lack thereof. The touch is both welcome and unsure, tentative and against the protocol they’ve both followed before. Blaine doesn’t have the mental capacity to try and redefine the lines and limitations and rules right now. His brain can only handle the simplest of thoughts as he fights sleep: he is being touched; Kurt is touching him; Blaine likes the way it feels; this touch is okay.

He has no idea how long they sit like that, but it must be awhile because Kurt has to clear his throat from disuse before he can speak again. “Are you okay?” Blaine nods, just barely. “Do you need me to stay?”

It takes a great effort for Blaine to blink open his eyes and focus enough to look at Kurt, vision a little blurry around the edges. He narrows his eyes, confused, and tries to come up with an answer. “I don’t _need_ you to, but --”

“Okay, I’m going to go, then,” Kurt says faintly, fingers still caressing Blaine’s arm.

Blaine blinks a few times, willing himself to be more awake right now. “You don’t have to,” he insists, trying to sit up a little and failing. “I’m just -- I get a little... lethargic after an extra dose. You don’t --”

“I’ll stay if you don’t feel safe.”

Blaine closes his eyes for a moment, frustrated that he can’t articulate his thoughts the way he wants to. The world is both soft and solid beneath him. Kurt’s hands are on his skin, the current muted around the edges, but Blaine trusts him with this. “I’m safe,” he mumbles, unable to say much more. _I’m safe because you’re here. Please, don’t go. Please, stay._

Kurt’s hand stills on his arm but he doesn’t remove it, not yet. He leans in to drop a kiss to Blaine’s cheek, the touch barely there, pinging and not buzzing. The hand moves from Blaine’s arm to his face, thumb running up and over the apple of his cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Kurt says quietly. Blaine’s eyes flicker open, fingers twitching in an effort to reach out for Kurt’s hand. He’s so _tired_ and he doesn’t want to be alone. Kurt makes him feel like he’s not alone. He doesn’t want Kurt to leave, but he can’t _stop it_ , he doesn’t have control over anything, and if he weren’t so fucking lethargic right now, he’d probably be building toward another panic attack.

Kurt leaves, and Blaine is alone.

He drifts for a while, giving himself over to a half-fitful sleep that isn’t really sleep while he waits for the medication to let up a little. He replays the afternoon in disjointed flashes in his mind; some parts come in blurry and muted around the edges, a distant memory, while others come in stark clarity, every point of contact real and every emotion resurfacing. He remembers how good he’d felt, being touched by Kurt. Blaine may have panicked because the furthest he’s gone with Kurt is the furthest he’s gone with anyone and the not knowing held him back, but that’s sort of the point. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable with going further. It’s not like he doesn’t _want to_. He just needs the time to mentally prepare himself for it.

Kurt’s reaction after the Klonopin had started to take effect is what makes Blaine unsettled. Kurt knows how to handle a panic attack. He’s helped Blaine before. He’s _had_ them before. And maybe his limitation is at the medication Blaine takes for his anxiety and -- if he needs it -- for panic attacks. Maybe it was never like this for Kurt. From the sound of it, he didn’t have them for that long. Still, Blaine doesn’t feel like his medication is a problem. Kurt had gotten it for him rather willingly and even helped him take it, sort of.

The only other possibility Blaine can come up with for Kurt’s discomfort and quick exit is what caused the panic attack in the first place. Kurt clearly wants -- wanted to have sex with him. Blaine’s reaction probably gave Kurt the opposite impression, which probably left Kurt feeling more than a little stung and possibly... disappointed.

Blaine hates feeling like he’s disappointed someone. He _hates_ it.

And there it is, underneath the lethargy and guilt and frustration. He’s _angry_.

His history -- or lack thereof -- and his anxiety, they’re keeping him from what he wants and making it -- Kurt difficult to obtain. Blaine hates the lack of control, hates that it gets taken away from him without any warning. He so _badly_ wants to fix this, to make everything okay again. He wants to reassure Kurt of what he wants, wants to explain why he’d panicked, wants to explain _everything_. But he can’t -- he’s not ready, at least not for everything, and he’ll have to settle for calling Kurt tomorrow (if Kurt doesn’t end up calling first) and setting the record straight about desires and intentions today.

Blaine finally gives himself over to sleep, and in the quiet dark, he waits for a chance at redemption.

* * * * *

_Friday, 10 April 2020_

Kurt doesn’t call.

Blaine does, twice on Thursday and once Friday and Saturday. It takes three days for Kurt to respond, and when he does, it’s with a simple text message: _Give me a little time._

Blaine’s reminded of his mother’s fretting back in December, after Cooper had dragged him outside, and he remembers the words that had cut so deep: _Stop smothering me. I need space._

Blaine tries not to take it the wrong way and texts back with a simple _okay <3_.

It keeps raining.

His parents come to visit on Sunday, he has group on Monday and sees Tracie on Tuesday, but outside of those three days, Blaine has no commitments other than sitting at his piano. He invites Marley over often while Kurt’s gone radio silent just to force himself to get some work done. Blaine likes having her there -- she has a good work ethic, but she was serious about wanting the process to be more informal and relaxed. She forces Blaine to take breaks when he’s really just trying to stay busy so he doesn’t think about Kurt. He hasn’t said anything to her about his panic attack last week, hasn’t even mentioned it to group or to Tracie yet. Everything is still a little too fresh, and Blaine’s not sure he’ll even know how to begin to process any of it until he gets a better handle on what Kurt’s thinking.

It occurs to him, now, that maybe he doesn’t always have to approach the problems in his life like he’s in therapy. Maybe it’s okay to treat people -- fellow members, colleagues -- as his friends. Part of him would love to pick Emma’s brain for a while, but she’s seemed increasingly agitated and fragile with each new week. He doesn’t know that he needs guidance right now. Advice, he’ll take, which he doesn’t get in group. The people in group listen, but that only helps so much. He wants -- he wants a _friend_ , someone who will listen and sort through the mess in his head and offer him suggestions without expecting him to take it. He appreciates Tracie, he _does_ , but they can only be so close.

Today is Friday, and Blaine feels alone.

And in the middle of a war, Blaine wants someone to accompany him into battle.

Blaine glances up from his spot at the piano at Marley. She’s curled up on the armchair that Tracie normally occupies on Tuesdays, legs pulled up off of the floor, knees bent. She’s got a notebook propped up against her legs, pen tapping absently against it while she thinks. Her hair is pulled back into a french braid today, and she looks so much younger than twenty. Everything about her is young, and even though Blaine is a whole five years older than her, he often feels like she’s wiser than he is, cultured and experienced and knowledgeable. This is one of those times. There’s so much that he wants to ask her, so much he wishes she could teach him, so much he wishes she could tell him how to fix. He just... doesn’t know how to ask.

“Are you a virgin?”

Marley blinks up in surprise and looks over at him with a raised eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Blaine blushes bright red and looks down at the piano keys. “Nothing,” he mumbles. “Forget I asked.” He turns his attention back to the half-finished sheet music in front of him, fingers fumbling through the melody he’s been playing all day. Marley is quiet, but Blaine doesn’t have the nerve to look up and see if she’s turned her attention back to her own work.

“Why do you want to know?” she asks finally. The question doesn’t surprise him, not with her involvement with the press and public, not with her lack of privacy. Still, it stings a little that she’s this guarded around him, even if they’re barely friends.

Blaine offers her a tight smile and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, turning his attention back to his music.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her drop the pen and notebook onto the coffee table before turning to look at him over the back of the chair. “Are _you_?” she asks slowly.

Blaine lifts his gaze slowly, squirming uncomfortably. “Maybe?”

Marley, thankfully, doesn’t laugh at him or make a snide comment. She studies him for a minute before moving to the chaise at the edge of the sofa. “Come sit,” she says, patting the space next to her. Blaine obliges, taking the seat next to her tentatively. “I take it this has to do with Kurt.”

Blaine rubs his palms against the top of his pants. “Yeah.”

“So you’re thinking about it?” Marley guesses. Blaine inhales sharply, trying to figure out exactly how to answer that. “You’ve already tried.” Blaine closes his eyes and tries not to remember just how badly he’d panicked. “Tell me about it.”

In, out, and Blaine opens his eyes and trains them on the coffee table. “Things are... progressing, physically. And it’s not that it’s too fast or too slow or anything, it’s just -- I’ve never done it before. I’ve never really had the opportunity. And it’s not that I don’t _want to_ , because I do, _god_ I do. It’s just --”

“-- something new,” she supplies for him.

He looks over at her, relaxing at her words. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “And my brain wouldn’t shut up and all I could think about was how I didn’t know what I was doing even though I knew what to do in theory and I was afraid of screwing things up and I just...” He reclines his head on the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. “Panicked.”

“Literally?”

“Literally,” Blaine affirms with a sigh.

“How’d Kurt take that?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine admits, running a hand over his face. “I mean, he knows how to handle panic attacks -- he was good about that. But I always get so _tired_ after one and I didn’t want to try and talk about why it had happened and when he left, everything was just... awkward. He seemed...I don’t know, upset? Disappointed? At first, I thought it might have been because we didn’t have sex, but he texted last week and told me that he needed time and I don’t -- I don’t know. Now I’m thinking it might be something entirely different. I’m not sure what to think.”

“You haven’t told him much, have you?” Marley ventures tentatively. “About the virgin thing or the therapy thing or the recluse thing?”

Blaine shakes his head. “No, but it’s not that I don’t trust him or anything. It’s just -- it’s _hard_ trying to talk about everything, you know? It’s different with my therapist or my parents or people in group. Everyone already knows. And it’s not that I’m worried about him judging me. He met me in the middle of a panic attack, for crying out loud. And he knows I’m on meds, now, but I just --”

“Hey,” Marley says gently, nudging him with her elbow. Blaine lolls his head to the side, relaxing a little at the sight of her smile. “Look at who you’re talking to. You don’t have to try and explain what it’s like to be afraid of spilling your secrets to someone new.” Blaine smiles weakly at her. “It doesn’t always mean something. I can understand why it does for you.”

“You can?”

“It’s more than just sex for you,” she says. “It’s letting someone get close, and you haven’t done that in a long time.” She’s quiet for a minute after that, hands folded primly over her abdomen, eyes downcast. “I was seventeen.”

“Sounds pretty normal so far,” Blaine teases.

Marley hits him with a pillow. “Do you want to hear this story or not?” Blaine holds up his hands in surrender, biting back a smile. “I’d just released my second album and I was headlining my first real tour. I was dating -- have you heard of Bad Kids?” Blaine nods. “I was dating one of the members -- Jake Puckerman. He was my first boyfriend. And we spent a _lot_ of time together before I went on tour. We got along really well, had a lot in common, made each other laugh. We were kind of each other’s support system. We knew what the other was going through. I trusted him. It felt natural to have him be my first.”

“So what happened?”

Marley leans back, head reclining against the back of the couch, eyes closed, and exhales slowly, just as Blaine had done earlier. “I did something really stupid.”

“You don’t strike me as the type,” Blaine says slowly.

“I was seventeen,” Marley laughs. “Doesn’t everyone do stupid stuff when they’re seventeen?”

“I guess.”

“Right,” Marley says, bending her legs at the knees. “Sorry, I didn’t mean --”

“It’s fine,” Blaine dismisses. “Finish your story.”

Marley looks uncomfortable, but she keeps talking, and affection blooms in Blaine’s chest. “The tour started in California,” she continues. “He came to all of those shows, even the one in San Francisco. That was where it happened.”

“The losing your virginity or the something stupid?”

“Losing my virginity,” Marley clarifies. “I went to his room after my show. My mom was asleep by the time I got back to ours.”

“And the something stupid?” Blaine prompts carefully.

Marley closes her eyes again. “Ohio,” she says quietly. “I hadn’t seen Jake in almost two months and there was this guy -- Ryder. He was the drummer in my band for a while and a year older than me. Everyone else was older and I just... got lonely. I had my mom, but it wasn’t the same. I missed Jake. Ryder and I just kind of bonded, and after my show in Cleveland, I did something really stupid. I let him kiss me.” Blaine bites his lip, intent on not interrupting. The story’s deviating from what he’s sure was its original purpose, but he wouldn’t dare cut her off, not now. “Jake walked in on us. He’d flown in from L.A. to surprise me. He’d even brought my favorite flowers. Everything kind of... fell apart after that.” She opens her eyes and turns to look at him, clearly a little upset, but she’s not crying, not even close, and Blaine knows she’s still got her guard up. “I don’t want it to sound like my life fell apart because my boyfriend broke up with me. That’s not -- I know that’s probably how people would take it, if they knew, but it’s not true. I just --” Eyes downcast again and Blaine feels the tug he’s been longing for, the one that makes him want to help. “It’s almost impossible to have a real friend in my line of work. After Cleveland, I was alone. I hid things from my mom. Everything just kind of... spiralled out of control.” Eyes up again, blue striking and reminding Blaine so much of Kurt. “It’s why I’ve been attending group probably longer than I needed to,” she says quietly. “Because even if it’s not always voluntary or real, it’s understanding. It’s support. And I don’t know if I’m ready to let that go.”

Blaine looks down at her hands, inhaling sharply at how thin her wrists still look even though she’s getting better. His hand twitches, wanting to reach out and hold hers, but he mirrors her position and folds his hands over his abdomen. “Do you regret it?” he asks. “How you lost your virginity?”

“Not at all.” She hesitates for a moment, looking up at the ceiling before continuing. “I don’t regret letting Ryder kiss me either. I mean, I _do_ , of course I do, but at the same time, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what I learned from it,” she says. “People aren’t replaceable. And -- once everything started to fall apart, all I wanted to do is disappear,” she breathes, almost like a confession. “And I learned -- I’m still learning -- that I can’t. I don’t _want_ to, not anymore. But I can’t reappear until I can see my own reflection again, and I’m not quite there yet. I’m working on it, and I’m a lot closer than I was, but I’m not ready yet. I think everyone else thinks I am, but I’m not.” She looks back over at him, smile awkward and tight-lipped. It’s the most forced he’s ever seen her, attempting to keep things pleasant. Her gaze drifts to the coffee table, and she nods at the object in question. “What’s in the box?”

Blaine takes the question for what it is -- a change of subject -- and answers. “Photographs.”

Marley sits up a little, tucking one leg under herself before gesturing toward the box. “May I?” Blaine nods his permission. Marley takes the box into her lap and pries open the lid, fingers gently shuffling through the photographs inside. “Are these all recent?”

“Yeah, they’re -- I was really into photography when I was a kid,” he explains. “Kurt kind of helped me get back into it over Christmas, and I decided I wanted to try and use it to gain some new perspective, you know? I wanted to use it to try and change my perception of the world and the people in it.”

Marley pauses in her perusing to look up at him, smile reaching her eyes. There’s something almost like... longing in her eyes, but they both let the moment pass in silence. She shifts her attention back to the pile of photographs quickly, expression shifting into something a little too knowing for Blaine’s liking. “Is this Kurt?” she asks, holding up one of the photographs.

Blaine reaches out, fingers gripping the edge of the photograph to get a better look. It’s a photograph of him and Kurt together on one of their dates post-Valentine’s Day; Blaine is looking at the camera, but Kurt is looking at Blaine. “Yeah,” he answers, voice quiet. “That’s him.” Just _seeing_ Kurt makes Blaine’s heart ache with longing.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful with your issues with him,” Marley says, “but for what it’s worth, I think everything will be okay.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can see it in his eyes,” she says, scooting a little closer so she can get a better look at the photograph again. “You know that feeling you get when something -- no matter how inconsequential it might be -- just makes your entire day?” Blaine nods. “That’s what I see when I look at this. I bet that’s how you make him feel.”

“You know,” he ventures slowly, brow furrowed in confusion, “he’s never actually told me. It’s been so easy up until now. We’re so comfortable around each other, even after we fell together as a couple. But the whole time we’ve known each other, he’s never actually told me why he likes me, why he spends so much time with me, why he wants to be with me this way. Not once.”

“Okay,” Marley tries, taking the photograph from him and depositing it in the box before setting the box back down on the table. “Remember how you told me how hard it is for you to be able to talk about your history and anxiety and everything? Well, maybe that’s what it’s like for Kurt. Maybe he has a really hard time expressing himself.”

Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile. “You don’t know him like I do. Kurt has no problem expressing himself,” he laughs.

Marley rolls her eyes, but it’s playful, not malicious. “Okay, then maybe he’s just waiting for you to ask.”

_That_ strikes a chord, and Blaine glances over his shoulder at his desk. There’s still a half-finished score clipped together and tucked away in his drawer, his feelings for Kurt translated into music. There’s a reason, he realizes now, that it’s only half-finished. He can’t complete the piece without knowing how Kurt feels, no matter how obvious Kurt’s feelings might be. The notes and chords had fit together so well when Blaine had first started to compose the piece, but the ending was -- still is -- open-ended, waiting for its counterpart.

Marley’s hand settles on top of Blaine’s, and he can only hope that if he’s brave enough to ask, that Kurt will be able to give him the puzzle pieces he’s missing.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 16 April 2020_

Out in the warzone, the rain fills in the trenches, and Blaine just tries to keep his head above water.

He’s taking today for himself, needing a break from Marley and music and melancholy. He’s seen her so much in the last two weeks that he’s (mostly) gotten over being a little starstruck around her. Blaine also doesn’t want to lose the value or the beauty of his music; it’s his career and comfort and refuge, and he’s worried that all of the joy will be sucked out of it if he continues to use it as a distraction. In an effort to prevent that from happening, he’d gone out this morning to look for various supplies he’ll need for another project. Now, he totes a small, decorative reusable bag from a small, independent arts and crafts store in one hand and his umbrella in the other as he climbs the stairs to his apartment. He starts to dig in his pockets for his keys when he reaches the landing that leads into his hallway, distracted with the task until he finds them. He looks up as he approaches his door and --

Kurt.

_Kurt_.

Kurt is sitting on the floor next to the door to Blaine’s apartment, earbuds in and eyes closed. He doesn’t have an umbrella with him and his clothes are a little damp, his hairspray starting to lose its hold, his forehead shining with sweat.

He still takes Blaine’s breath away.

Nervous but beyond glad to see Kurt, Blaine approaches a little cautiously and nudges Kurt’s foot with his own. Kurt opens his eyes and tugs his earbuds out before looking up. And god, Blaine has missed the spark Kurt gets in his eyes when he looks at Blaine. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Blaine returns quietly. “Have you been waiting long?”

Kurt shakes his head. “Fifteen or twenty minutes, probably. I texted you after I got here, but I’m guessing you didn’t get it.” He starts to push himself to his feet and lets out a hollow laugh as he tucks his headphones back into his pocket. “I should really start calling or texting beforehand instead of just showing up unannounced.”

“You should also probably get an umbrella,” Blaine advises.

Kurt shrugs a little sheepishly as he straightens up, biting his lip and looking over his shoulder at the door to Blaine’s apartment. “Is it okay if I --”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Blaine says distractedly, moving toward the door. He struggles to get the key in the lock in his haste and pushes the door open as quickly as he can to let Kurt in. They both take the distraction that first few minutes inside provide them, taking off jackets and shoes. Blaine leaves his umbrella by the door and takes his bag to the living room, Kurt following behind.

“What’s in the bag?” Kurt asks as Blaine sets it down on the coffee table.

“Um, supplies,” he answers, turning around to face Kurt. “For scrapbooking. I’ve had the pictures from the first roll of film developed for a while. I had an idea -- a concept for a scrapbook for them.” Kurt smiles, only half meeting Blaine’s eyes. Blaine rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s never been this awkward and uncomfortable between them. They’ve always known what to say, and even if they haven’t, they’ve been comfortable in the silence, enjoying each other’s company regardless of what they’re doing. It’s the first time that neither of them seem to know what to do or how to behave or what to say, and Blaine hates it. He hates feeling the loss, and ache replaces anger. “Kurt, I --”

The words die in his throat as Kurt’s arms wrap around him and tug him close. The touch is jarring after so long without it, and Blaine’s whole body thrums to life with electricity. “I’m so sorry,” Kurt whispers into his ear.

A jolt to restart his heart, and Blaine finally feels like he can breathe again.

He brings his arms up to encircle Kurt and closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. He doesn’t let go, but he does manage to get his words to start working again. “For what?”

Kurt pulls back a little, just enough so that they can look at each other properly and still be touching. “For the way I left,” he says, looking a little pained. “I didn’t -- I don’t want you to think that it was because you had a panic attack or because you had to take medication or anything like that,” he explains. “None of that was really a problem for me. I hope -- I hope you can believe that.”

Blaine tenses up a little but breathes in to steady himself. He’s been waiting for two weeks to have this conversation. He’s not backing out now. “I believe you,” he assures Kurt. “How could I not? You met me in the middle of one.” He bites his lip, hesitating. “You stayed, then. You didn’t -- you didn’t want to leave me alone. You walked me home. I just --” In, out. “You stayed last time, but I -- it was different. I couldn’t figure out why you left. And I thought -- I thought that maybe you were... disappointed that I’d put the brakes on.”

“I’m not,” Kurt promises, taking Blaine’s hands in his. “I don’t -- honestly, I normally don’t move this fast in a relationship. It’s different with you,” he says softly. “I held back for so long that it drove me kind of crazy. After Valentine’s Day, I lost one of my biggest reasons to hold back. I kind of... couldn’t keep my hands off of you,” he admits, blushing. “But I don’t _mind_ taking things slow.”

It should make Blaine feel better, but it only makes him more confused and apprehensive. “So what _is_ the issue here?” he asks. “Because I thought that maybe you’d taken it the wrong way, that you thought it meant I didn’t want --”

“Can we sit?” Kurt requests, gesturing to the couch. The request does nothing for Blaine’s nerves, and he can feels his anxiety start to creep in around the edges. Still, he lets Kurt guide him onto the couch and waits. Kurt inhales sharply and looks down at their hands for a moment before speaking. “I need you to let me talk,” he says clearly. “I need you to just let me get this out without interrupting me if you can help it. I need you to let me explain why I reacted the way I did.” Throat feeling thick, Blaine communicates his assent with a squeeze of Kurt’s hand, pulse communicating the words he can’t bring himself to speak. “You having a panic attack while we were... intimate,” Kurt begins, wincing a little at the word choice, “kind of smacked me in the face. Things have been so _good_ between us that it was like this unwelcome wake-up call.”

“To what?”

“To the fact that I... probably don’t know you as well as I think I do, or as well I want to,” Kurt admits, lifting his gaze. “I spend my life trying to help people, and that day, I couldn’t help you any more than I’d already done. I didn’t know how, Blaine.”

“You helped,” Blaine insists, adjusting his grip on Kurt’s hand.

“To an extent,” Kurt corrects. “I couldn’t help the way I wanted to because I didn’t know why you had a panic attack then. You weren’t really in any fit state to explain it to me even if you wanted to, even if I’d asked.”

“It’s just the extra dose,” Blaine tries to explain, dropping his gaze to his lap. “It makes me really lethargic. I wanted --”

“I know,” Kurt cuts in. “Just -- let me get this out, _please_. I need you to understand where I’m coming from, okay? I’ve spent the last two weeks wondering if it was something I did, Blaine. If it was something I said or did or if -- if it was the way I _touched_ you. I didn’t know what I was dealing with that day. With the things I encounter in my line of work sometimes, Blaine, the places my mind went...”

It takes Blaine a minute to fill in the blanks with the words Kurt leaves unsaid. He snaps his head up when he realizes what Kurt must have been thinking and squeezes Kurt’s hand hard. “It’s not like that,” he says quickly. “Please, don’t -- you’re not dealing with a history of sexual abuse or assault or anything like that, I promise. It’s not --” His heart starts to hammer in his chest, the words getting lost in his chest. “It wasn’t anything you did,” he settles on. “Please believe me when I tell you that it wasn’t unwelcome.”

Kurt seems to visibly relax, but the spark is in his eyes is gone, replaced with something Blaine thinks looks like pain. “I believe you,” he promises, echoing Blaine’s earlier words. “But that... doesn’t actually make things easier.” It’s Kurt who adjusts their hands this time, shifting on the couch as he sits up a little straighter. “I would never push you to tell me something you didn’t want to, or something you weren’t ready to tell me if you did. And I think -- I think you know that.”

It should make Blaine feel better, but it doesn’t. “If you don’t _need_ me to tell you on your terms, why is it still difficult?”

Kurt’s hand trembles a little in his, and he looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him when he finally brings himself to answer Blaine’s question. “Because the not knowing -- being in a relationship with you is like... walking through a minefield,” he confesses breathlessly. “And I don’t have a map or a guide or knowledge of where the mines are or how to avoid them, and I feel like I’m just waiting for something to blow up in my face. I feel like -- I feel like I’m standing back outside of your building waiting for you to let me in. _That’s_ what’s hard for me, Blaine. I want to help but I can’t, and now I’m worried that I’m just making things worse.”

Like walking through a minefield.

Blaine remembers saying almost the exact same thing about going outside to Tracie during one of their sessions earlier this year.

The comparison hits him like a knife to the chest, and Blaine drops Kurt’s hands and looks away, hardly able to breathe. “Hey,” Kurt says gently, fingertips brushing lightly across the back of Blaine’s hand. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I -- don’t _cry_ , Blaine,” he pleads, sounding a little close to crying himself. “I’m just trying to be honest with you --”

“It’s not that,” Blaine says wetly, closing his eyes to keep the tears at bay. “I understand, I really do. You have no idea how much.” In, out, and he opens his eyes, wishing the words would just come out already. “There is _so much_ I want to be able to tell you,” he breathes. “And you have no idea -- I let you in before anyone else. I just -- I can’t, right now. I’m -- I’m just not ready, I --”

“And I told you, it’s _okay_ ,” Kurt reassures him, scooting a little closer. He hesitates for a second before taking Blaine’s hand in his again. It feels like an anchor now, heavy and weighted and keeping him in place. Keeping him here, connected to Kurt. In, out, and Blaine breathes a little easier. He is not alone. “It’s not a dealbreaker for me. I’m not -- I’m not breaking up with you or anything,” he says, laughing a little, and Blaine can’t help but laugh with him because god, he’d never even considered that possibility. He’d gotten so comfortable, so sure of Kurt’s presence. Kurt hadn’t left before. Kurt had kept coming back.

He came back.

The tears splash onto Blaine’s cheeks, refusing to be kept in anymore. Kurt pulls Blaine into his arms, and Blaine tucks his face against Kurt’s chest and breathes. “Whenever you’re ready,” Kurt says quietly, running his hands soothingly up and down Blaine’s back, “I’ll be here ready to listen. But please don’t feel like you have to do it now, or that you have to do it by a certain time or anything, okay? That’s not what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Tell me,” Blaine whispers into his skin.

“I know this is difficult for you,” Kurt says quietly, pressing his lips to Blaine’s forehead, “and that’s okay. I just -- I needed you to understand that as difficult as this is for you, it’s difficult for me, too, and I don’t have the information you do.”

Blaine nods against Kurt’s chest, sniffing a little to try and regain some composure. Again, he’s reminded of Tracie telling him that this -- going outside and rejoining the world and interacting with the people in it -- wasn’t going to be easy. But he also remembers that she’d encouraged him not to let times like this -- the mines that blow up in his face and make him feel like he’s a thousand disjointed pieces -- debilitate him or make him forget how far he’s come, how much progress he’s actually made. He remembers her telling him that just because he might feel like giving up at times didn’t mean that he should. “Thank you,” he says quietly, relaxing in Kurt’s arms.

“For what?” Kurt laughs, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“For not giving up.” Blaine sniffs again and sits back up, lifting stinging eyes to look Kurt in the eye again. “Why _haven’t_ you give up?” he asks, remembering Marley’s advice to him last week. “Why did you -- why did you keep coming back? Why did you kiss me in February? Why --”

“Are you... asking me why I like you?” Kurt asks, clearly trying not to laugh. Blaine smiles, a little sheepish. Kurt’s lips relax into a smile, eyes warm and _oh_ , there’s that spark again. “I’ve been drawn to you from the moment I met you,” Kurt admits quietly. The spark dims a little as Kurt wrinkles his brow a little, a crease forming just above his nose as he closes his eyes. “The world can be... _so_ ugly, Blaine,” he breathes, opening his eyes. “And when I look at you, I remember that it doesn’t have to be. You’re --”

Blaine surges forward and cuts him off with a hard kiss to the mouth, fingers sparking with electricity as he reaches up to touch Kurt’s cheek. And _god_ , kissing Kurt again is like rain after a drought, and the current flowing between them gets caught in it, electrifying them both. Kurt’s hands find his skin, and Blaine thrums with possibility. He may not be ready to spill his secrets yet, may not be ready for more physical intimacy -- for _sex_ , god, he shivers at the thought of it -- but here, now, Blaine holds the possibilities in his hands.

Inside, Kurt helps mend the chinks in Blaine’s armor.

Outside, the rain pours on.

* * * * *

_Saturday, 25 April 2020_

Blaine heads out to war and goes looking for soldiers.

He’s discovering more each day that as much as he wants a new perception of the world, he wants allies just as much. He doesn’t want to stand alone, and if he can find someone to fight for change with him, maybe he can help them in battle, too.

Out into the eternal April storm, he goes under the canopy of his umbrella, shivering a little as he journeys to Emma’s apartment. He wonders vaguely if he should invest in a pair of rainboots if the rain keeps up much longer. He finds refuge in her apartment building, grateful for the convenience it provides on the last Saturday of each month. It’s close to the high school, which is probably why she chose it to begin with it, but it’s also not far from the community center, and Blaine feels better being able to walk back to her apartment together in the dark after class.

He knocks on her door and waits for her to answer, but when a few minutes pass without a response, Blaine digs his phone out of his pocket and sends her a text asking if she’s home. Still, no response, and Blaine’s just about to resign himself to heading to the community center alone and hoping she shows up when he decides to make one last attempt to see if she’s on the other side of the door. He rattles the doorknob and is surprised to find the door unlocked. It strikes him as particularly odd in this city, especially for Emma. Concerned, he pushes the door open an inch and leans in close. “Emma?” he calls out. “Emma, are you in there?”

He’s both surprised and relieved when he hears her voice answer him. “In the kitchen,” she calls back. There’s something... off about her voice when she answers, and it’s with extra care and trepidation that Blaine breaches the threshold of her apartment and shuts the door with a quiet click behind him, taking care not to let his umbrella drip water everywhere. He’s a little surprised that she’s allowing him inside of her apartment like this. He’s afraid to touch anything in her space, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. He remembers how agitated he’d been when his parents had come to check on him last December, remembers how he’d snapped at his mother for invading his safe space.

It takes him a minute to find the kitchen, and he freezes at the threshold, rooted to the spot. Emma’s scrubbing furiously at one of the countertops, brow knit in concentration, and from the smell of things, Blaine’s willing to guess that she’s been at it for hours. “Emma?” She starts even though she knows he’s there, but it’s the only acknowledgement she gives him before continuing cleaning the countertop. “What --” He pauses, knowing the question he’s about to ask is obvious, but how Emma chooses to answer might give him some insight into what’s going on. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know, just cleaning up,” she says, voice pitching a little higher. “The school was on spring break this week, so I went back to Ohio for a few days. I only got back last night and I -- I knew I wouldn’t have enough time to clean everything we use before class tonight, so I thought if I could just get some cleaning done here, it might help balance things out.” She shrugs a little and makes a sweeping gesture, sponge in hand, and --

“You’re not wearing gloves,” Blaine observes.

“Oh,” Emma says, frowning down at her hands a little. “Um, no, I’m not. I ran out of disposables before I left for Ohio, which is stupid, really, I should’ve remembered to restock before now, but everything needed to be cleaned and I --”

But Blaine’s stopped listening about halfway through her excuses, his eyes falling to her bare hands. His stomach twists at the sight of them. “Emma,” he says slowly, “how many times have you cleaned this room?”

She bites her lip and glances around the room, eyes darting from one surface to the other. Blaine can practically see the cogs turning in her head behind her eyes, running through a mental checklist of everything she’s done so far, how many times she’s done them. “I’m on my third pass,” she admits. “But I think there’s only enough bleach left to finish this round --”

“Emma,” Blaine says gently, slowly setting his umbrella down and closing the space between them, “I think you should stop.”

“I can’t stop,” she insists, shaking her head. “I’m not done, it’s not clean --” She tapers off when Blaine reaches out and gently pries the sponge from her hands, careful not to touch her skin.

“I wouldn’t stop you in the middle of something like this unless I had to,” he insists, “but Emma, your hands are bleeding.” She looks down at her hands, breath catching in her chest. They’re dry and cracked and bleeding, have been bleeding for a while, from the look of some of the dried blood. She seems almost taken aback by the sight, blinking up at Blaine and, well. Blaine hates to even make the comparison, but the resemblance Emma bears to a deer in headlights right now is too close not to.

Emma has been wounded in battle, and all Blaine wants to do is help.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” he asks. “Any sort of medical supplies or anything?”

She blinks and shakes her head a little, almost as if she’s waking up. “In the bathroom,” she answers faintly.

He tries to touch as little as possible in his quest to find supplies to take care of her with, using his hands only if he has to. He gets the idea to use a hand towel to minimize contact, and he wraps the first aid kit in it and carries it back to the kitchen. It doesn’t surprise him that she has an actual first aid kit; she is a high school guidance counselor, after all.

Back in the kitchen, Emma hasn’t moved, and the sponge still sits on the counter where Blaine has left it. Blaine carries the kit until he’s standing in front of her and holds it out as an offering. “Will you let me help you?” She looks up a little, eyes fixed on his hands, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod. Wordlessly, she holds out her hands. Blaine sets the box on the counter and silently works the latch open. There’s a pair of disposable gloves inside, and he can hear Emma’s relieved exhale when she catches sight of them.

Blaine slips the gloves on without comment and starts to rifle through the contents of the first aid kit, relief unfurling in his chest when he finds a tube of antibiotic ointment. He works in silence, carefully cleaning off the blood on her stiff and shaking hands. It’s not until he starts to apply the antibiotic ointment to her hands that either of them speaks at all, and Emma’s the one to break the silence. “I haven’t been back to Ohio since I moved out here last year,” she says quietly. “And I thought -- I thought it’d be okay, you know? Since I started therapy and my medication and everything.” Blaine’s hands slow, just a little bit, but he tries not to react beyond that. “My ex-husband found out I was in town. He wanted to see me.”

“And... how did _you_ feel about that?” he asks, feeling a little like Tracie.

The question seems to agitate her, and she winces a little as Blaine applies ointment to her knuckles. He hears her take a few sharp inhales through the nose, stopping just short of speaking, and when he finally looks up at her face, he thinks he’s about to see Emma Pillsbury finally snap. “You don’t understand,” she says faintly, and oh, that’s not at all what Blaine was expecting. She’s not exploding like he expected her to; she’s imploding instead, turning in on herself, becoming small. Her fingers start to twitch, like she’s itching to start cleaning again, but she doesn’t move. “I _loved_ Will. I loved him with every part of me I could for ten years. But it wasn’t enough, it was never enough, no matter how hard I tried and I -- I --”

Emma doesn’t snap -- she _breaks_.

Her hands are gone from his almost too quickly as she bursts into hysterical tears and sinks to the floor, legs bent at an awkward angle. She leans back against the cabinets as she sobs, and Blaine feels his chest tighten as she starts to hyperventilate. He freezes a little, hands messy and eyes wide, before he realizes that she isn’t actually having a panic attack. She’s just _upset_ , helpless and wounded and he has to help her before things get any worse.

Blaine reaches for a few packets of gauze and the roll of medical tape and sinks to the floor next to her, reaching for her hands without permission. This is his mission, now, to get Emma patched up before she’s upset enough to push him away. He handles her hands with tenderness and care, not wanting her to hurt more than she already is. “Will was just -- he was never good at this,” she explains, sniffing. “He didn’t know how to handle it. And he _tried_ ,” she says emphatically. “He tried so _hard_. He just -- he wanted me to be better, you know?” Blaine nods absently, choosing not to interrupt as he wraps one hand with gauze, then the other. He tries not to think of his mother. “But I couldn’t -- I couldn’t bring myself to do what he wanted.” She looks over at him, suddenly calm, eyes red and wet and utterly defeated. “I put off getting help for so long because I was afraid of it. I was afraid of what the medication might do to me. I -- I didn’t want it to turn me into someone I’m not.” She looks back down at her hands as he secures the gauze with one last piece of tape. “Will didn’t understand -- this is who I’m supposed to be.”

Blaine inhales sharply in an effort not to cry. He sets the tape down on the floor with a quiet _click_ and takes both of her hands carefully in his, his gloved ones cradling her gauzed ones. “Your illness is not who you’re supposed to be, Emma.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” she argues, tearing up again. “I’ve been on this medication for months and I don’t -- I feel _awful_.”

“Have you told anyone that?” he asks. She shakes her head. “You should,” he advises gently, treading lightly. “It’s probably not the right fit for you, Emma. You can be given something else. It’s what happened to me, in the beginning. I struggled with the first medication I was prescribed. But when I finally switched, it was like I could breathe again.” Her breathing starts to even out again, eyes dropping to where Blaine’s hands are cradling hers. He starts to pull away on instinct, thinking she’s bothered by it, but she goes with his pull, her hands staying firmly nestled in his own.

He’s anchoring her.

Mildly terrified and a little encouraged, Blaine stays put and tries to refocus on the issue at hand. “So what about Will?” he asks. “Did you see him?”

She nods, tears staining her cheeks. She’s less hysterical than before but she’s still obviously upset. “I think he expected me to be different. _I_ expected me to be different,” she admits quietly. “But I wasn’t -- or at least, not in the ways either of us were hoping. He seemed... disappointed.” She snaps her head up abruptly, looking alarmed. “Class,” she gasps. “I’m so sorry, I --”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures her. “We can always try again next month, if you’re up for it.” He starts to pull his hands away again, readying himself to rise to his feet and try and get Emma somewhere more comfortable -- the couch, maybe -- but again, Emma follows, keeping her hands settled in his.

“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t let go.”

The words echo and reverberate in his head and his chest, and a muted memory of himself saying the exact same words to Kurt so many months ago -- _please, don’t let go_ \-- suddenly comes into sharp clarity. Blaine had so desperately not wanted to be alone, then, had so longed for human contact. And here, now, with a woman who is fifteen years his senior and loathes human contact, Blaine has a chance to help.

Outside, it finally stops raining, and Blaine takes Emma’s hands in his and lifts them both out of the trenches.

* * * * *


	8. May

** May **

_Tuesday, 5 May 2020_

The first thing Blaine does after Tracie settles into her armchair on Tuesday is flop down, stomach first, onto the couch and plant his face into a throw pillow. “Help,” he mumbles.

“You need somebody?”

Blaine moves his head so that his cheek is squished against the pillow, his brow knit in confusion. “What?”

Tracie arches her eyebrows expectantly. “Not just anybody?”

“You know I need someone,” Blaine finishes with her. “Beatles, really?”

Her mouth twitches into a smile. “You do give me a lot of openings for musical numbers.”

Blaine can’t help smiling back, and he rolls over onto his back, resting his head against the pillow. “Kurt tried to have sex with me.” Immediately, he winces and looks back over at her. “That sounded bad. That’s not what I meant. I mean, it is, but --”

“Breathe.”

In, out. “He made advances that weren’t unwelcome, but they were also... unplanned. And I had a panic attack.”

“Okay, hang on, let’s back up a little bit,” Tracie cuts in. “Your relationship with Kurt is progressing into something more physical.”

“Yes.”

“Is that something you want?” she asks. “Do you _want_ to have a sexual relationship with Kurt?”

Blaine looks at her upside down from his position on the couch, a little incredulous at first. He manages to tamp down the feeling when he approaches the question logically, though. Whatever suspicions she may have about Blaine’s relationship with Kurt, as his therapist, she only knows what he tells her. He nods at the box still sitting on the table next to the half-finished scrapbook of perception. “In the box,” he instructs. “Third picture from the top.”

It takes her a moment, but she eventually sets down the iced tea he’d made for her and pries open the lid of the box. She rifles through a few of the photographs before she unearths the one he’d commissioned her to find, and he can see a hint of a polite smile at the corner of her mouth. “Kurt, I take it?” Blaine nods. “He’s very attractive.” She sets the photograph and the box back down on the table and picks her glass back up, rim hovering just below her lips. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Blaine squirms uncomfortably and close his eyes, hands folded over his abdomen to center him. “Yes,” he finally answers. “I do.”

“Okay, so that brings us to his advances not being unwelcome,” she says, taking a sip. “Take me back to what it was like before you had the panic attack. Set the scene for me.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at the request but doesn’t open his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says awkwardly. “I guess -- we were here, on the couch? And we were kissing, and then things got a little... heated --” He stops, inhaling sharply and sitting up. He really doesn’t want to remember how badly he’d panicked.

Tracie gives him a moment before prompting, “How did that make you feel? When things got heated?”

Out, and Blaine relaxes with the exhale. He shifts, resting his back against the couch, legs crossed indian-style. “Good,” he admits. He still can’t quite bring himself to look at Tracie, not when he’s sure he’s blushing trying to talk about this with her. “I like being with Kurt. I like -- he’s attractive, but that’s not why I want to...”

“Have sex with him?” Tracie supplies.

Blaine nods. “I’m attracted to him, but I feel comfortable with him. I trust him. I like -- I like the way he touches me. I like the way it makes me feel.”

“How does it make you feel?”

Blaine opens his eyes and smooths his palms over his thighs. “Safe,” he says softly. “It’s like waking up.”

“Okay, so you’re attracted to him,” Tracie summarizes. “You like him. You’re comfortable with him. His advances weren’t unwelcome. You like the way it feels when he touches you.”

“Yes,” Blaine affirms.

“Take me back to the panic attack now,” she requests. “Go backwards. Right before you panicked, what were you feeling? What were you thinking?”

Eyes closed again, in, out. “I felt like I didn’t have any control over the situation.”

“Control over what, specifically?” she prompts. “Over what he did?”

Blaine blinks his eyes open and looks over at her, alarmed. “No,” he insists. “It’s not -- it wasn’t like that. Kurt wouldn’t have done anything I wasn’t comfortable with. When I asked him to stop, he did.”

“Okay,” Tracie allows. “So what didn’t you feel like you had any control over, then?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine says, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly and dropping his gaze. “Myself, I guess?”

“You felt like you didn’t have control over your actions?”

“No,” Blaine sighs, frustrated. “It wasn’t that, either.”

“I know this is difficult for you, Blaine,” Tracie says gently. “I’m just trying to help us both understand what happened and why it happened.”

In, out. Blaine flexes his fingers and tries to figure out how to explain his hesitation. “Have you ever been given the opportunity to do something new? Something you’ve never done before? Have you ever worried about doing it wrong, or hurting someone in the process, or just screwing up entirely?”

“I think everyone feels like that at one point or another.”

“It’s different for me,” Blaine huffs, trying not to get frustrated. “It’s different for someone with anxiety. And I know you know that. I know you can understand how feeling like that can hold someone like me back from even trying.”

“But you want to try, Blaine,” she points out.

“I know,” he sighs. “That’s what makes it so frustrating. I’m still having trouble getting my desires to overcome my anxiety all of the time. But... change doesn’t happen overnight, ugh,” he groans. He flops over awkwardly and faceplants into the pillow again. “Help,” he mumbles again.

“May I make an observation?”

Blaine lifts his head and rests his chin on the pillow, resigning. “I did ask for help,” he sighs.

“You said you didn’t panic because of his touch,” Tracie reminds him. “I have an idea of why you may have panicked, specifically. You seemed to focus on the control you had over the situation, over what you might have done wrong. I think you’re concerned not with the way he might touch you, but with the way you might touch him.”

“Well, yeah,” Blaine says, thinking the conclusion’s a little obvious.

“It stands to reason that if you’re uncomfortable initiating sexual touch, you might be uncomfortable when it comes to your own body.”

“But I’m not,” Blaine protests, sitting up again. “It’s not like -- I have an... appetite for it. I watch porn. I masturbate, I --” He stops abruptly and covers his eyes with his hand, face burning with embarrassment. “Oh god, I’m talking to my therapist about my masturbation habits.”

“Do you want to stop?” she offers.

In, up. “Do you think it will help if we keep going?”

“Yes.”

Out, down. “Then no,” he sighs, removing his hand. He still can’t quite bring himself to look her in the eye, but he knows that she’s right. “Let’s just hope that I don’t die from secondhand embarrassment first.”

“I can try to make this as quick and painless for you as possible,” she suggests.

“Please,” he begs.

“Practice makes perfect.”

Blaine blinks in surprise, still for a moment, before he throws his head back against the couch and bursts out laughing. “My therapist is encouraging me to masturbate more to help me feel comfortable enough to give my virginity to my police officer boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say that,” Tracie argues, but she starts laughing, too. And god, that way their laughter sounds echoing and reverberating through the apartment is _wonderful_ after the month Blaine has had. If this is any indication things to come, Blaine will take the awkward, fumbling mess this session has been over the pain he’d struggled through last month. April may have been full of showers, but May itself holds all of the possibility for something new to bloom.

Blaine looks down at his lap as his laughter begins to taper off. “This is, um, this is not a conversation I thought I’d be having at twenty-five,” he admits through his laughter, rubbing at the back of his neck again.

“Age is just a number,” Tracie teases. He glances over at her and smiles, still a little embarrassed but decidedly less tense. Tracie softens a little, returning the smile, though hers seems a little more dim in comparison. “You aren’t fourteen anymore, Blaine.”

Blaine’s lost count of how many times that’s come up in the last six months. He isn’t fourteen anymore. He isn’t the same person anymore. The world isn’t the same. He’s twenty-five and he is changing. The world is changing, and he is changing with it. It’s almost like a mantra now, and it settles in comfortably into the weight of his bones so he can carry it with him.

“No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 13 May 2020_

Blaine looks down at the mess on his coffee table and feels a strange sense of accomplishment. He’s not quite done with his _Perception_ scrapbook yet, but he’s put it most of the photographs from the first roll of film that feel appropriate. He has a couple of extra copies of some of the pictures, but for the most part, he feels ready to load a new roll of film into his camera. He sets to work cleaning up the mess he’s made, discarding the trimmed edges and scraps and putting away his supplies. He closes the scrapbook, fingers lingering over the empty spot where he has yet to fill in the title. It’s the final touch he’s waiting to put on his composition, and he can’t do it until all of the pages are filled. Part of him wants to save some of the blank pages for images he captures on a new roll. He’s not sure he’s quite ready for it to be finished yet. He doesn’t feel like his perception has changed enough yet, and it does feel right trying to finish a visual representation of it when the new picture he has of the world isn’t actually complete yet.

He turns his attention back to the table where the now mostly empty box of photographs sits. He picks up the ones that remain to organize them, pausing when he sees one of the photographs he took with Kurt. It’s Kurt’s favorite of the bunch, relaxed and casual and full of so much affection. And still, just seeing Kurt takes Blaine’s breath away. His eyes drift over Kurt’s likeness: the wrinkles at the corners of Kurt’s eyes because he’s smiling; the adorable little crease between his eyebrows; the laugh Kurt’s mouth had burst open with; one hand resting lightly on top of Blaine’s, the other lifted and wrapped around the side of Blaine’s neck, fingers long and slender and electrifying against Blaine’s skin.

Blaine shivers.

He looks down at his own fingers, much shorter and not as thin as Kurt’s. They’ve done Blaine just fine in the years he’s explored his own body, but now, he’s wondering just how much they’re capable of. He wonders what he can make himself feel if he thinks of Kurt while he uses them. He wonders what it would be like to imagine his fingers as Kurt’s, dancing across Blaine’s skin, wrapping around Blaine’s length and reaching down to stretch Blaine open. Blaine wonders what those fingers would be like in his mouth.

Blaine tugs at his collar and fidgets with his bowtie, pants suddenly uncomfortably tight. There’s a part of him that feels like he should feel awkward about wanting to masturbate to thoughts of his boyfriend at ten-thirty on a Wednesday morning. It’s the same part of him that feels like he should feel guilty or ashamed for even thinking about it. But he’s not. What he’d told Tracie had been true -- Blaine is comfortable with himself and his body, for the most part. Just because the rest of the world had seen him as ugly before doesn’t mean it’s how he’s seen himself. He knows there’s nothing wrong with who is. He is gay and he has a healthy sexual appetite and a familiar relationship with his right hand and all of that is okay.

Blaine breathes in deep and pushes himself to his feet. He can at least have the courtesy of confining his alone time to his bedroom. Other people are very rarely in there when he has company over, except to pass through on their way to the bathroom, and the only person who might be in here in the somewhat near future is someone who would probably (definitely) be more than okay with what he’s about to do.

Masturbate. He’s twenty-five. He can totally own up to the fact that he is about to masturbate.

He toes off his socks before he even touches the bed, not wanting to deal with them later. He toys with his bowtie for a minute before leaving it on. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to let his imagination run wild. He unearths a small box from the bottom drawer of his nightstand and settles it on top next to the box of tissues. He’ll open it when he’s ready. He settles onto the bed comfortably, propped up against his pillows.

In, out.

He starts with what he knows. A hand wrapped across his abdomen, squeezing at his waist. Kurt has done that dozens of times. Blaine reaches up and dances his fingertips featherlight across his jaw and down his neck. Again, the touch is familiar, although he’s much more used to Kurt’s fingers being the ones doing the touching like this. Blaine swallows hard and moves his hands up to work at undoing his tie, working a little clumsily due to his eagerness. He tugs it open but leaves it on and dangling, wondering if Kurt would find the image appealing. Eyes closed and first few buttons of his shirt undone, Blaine moves his fingers down along the column of his neck and feels his pulse pick up pace. Down his hand goes to undo the rest of the buttons, mind imagining the moist, intoxicating drag of Kurt’s lips and tongue across Blaine’s neck and up to his ear.

Blaine is achingly hard in his jeans and the only piece of clothing he’s actually taken off is his socks.

Blaine shrugs out of his shirt and tosses it to the other side of the bed before settling back against the pillows. In, out. He _has_ to calm down or else this is going to be over too fast. It won’t be over this fast with Kurt. At least, Blaine hopes it won’t be. He opens his eyes and tries to remember what it was like to see Kurt hovering over him, eyes dark and wanting. Blaine’s dick twitches in his jeans at the thought, and his hand moves of its own accord, dragging up the material of Blaine’s undershirt before fisting around one of the straps and pulling upward. Eyes closed and it’s not his hand, it’s Kurt’s, tugging him closer. Blaine lets out a choked off sound at the thought and arches his back up off of the bed, whining.

He wants _Kurt_.

Too impatient to care about dragging it out (it’s masturbation -- it’s not like he can’t do it again sometime soon), Blaine reaches for the hem of his undershirt and tugs, pulling it up and over his head. The undershirt joins the short-sleeved button down on the far side of the bed, and Blaine is half naked. He feels warm all over, feverish and longing, and he can’t stop his hands from roaming -- up his neck and down his chest and _chest_ , god, he wonders what Kurt’s bare chest would feel like against his own. Kurt is fit and mostly muscle and Blaine wonders what it would be like to lick a long, wet stripe up the center of Kurt’s chest with his tongue.

_Fuck_.

He flicks open the button of his jeans and slowly pulls the zipper down. His fingertips brush against the hair that’s patterned just above the waistband of his boxer briefs. He imagines Kurt toying with the waistband of them as Blaine does it himself now. Blaine can practically hear Kurt’s voice in his ear, low and breathless and reassuring. Blaine’s hips buck up of their own accord, clearly looking for friction for his dick. He wishes he could reach around to grab his own ass without it being awkward; he longs to know what Kurt’s hands would feel like there, firm skin catching and grabbing. Blaine can’t even imagine what it might be like, not with his jeans in the way, so he opens his eyes for the first time in several minutes and sits up a little to tug them off.

He’s in just his underwear now, and for the first time since he started, Blaine feels oddly... vulnerable. It’s been easy, up to this point. Most of what he’s imagined and done hasn’t been that different from the positions they’ve found themselves in before, sans the whole removal of clothes thing. Trying to imagine Kurt here with him like this is a little unnerving. He already feels electrified every time Kurt touches what little skin he’s been able to reach. Blaine shivers at the thought of Kurt’s hands all over his body, hands skimming down Blaine’s back and caressing his legs. Blaine’s breath catches at the very thought, and he drags his hands up along the skin of his legs as he lays back down.

He toys with the waistband of his underwear, closing his eyes to the world and imagining Kurt’s touch, both calming and electrifying. He barks out a laugh when he tries to imagine what Kurt would do and comes up with an obvious answer. Kurt hadn’t been able to keep his hands off of Blaine, he’d said. Blaine can’t imagine that Kurt would take as agonizingly long as Blaine has to undress. With that in mind, Blaine shucks his underwear off and adds it to the pile of clothes.

In his room, Blaine is naked and alone.

In Blaine’s mind, Kurt kisses every inch of his skin and calls him beautiful.

He snaps himself out of his fantasy temporarily and turns his attention to the box on his nightstand. He pries the lid off and blindly digs around inside until his hand encloses around a bottle of lube. Quickly, he coats his hand and wraps it around his length, tossing his head back against the pillows and groaning in relief. He strokes, gently at first just to get his dick wet, running his thumb up and over the head, thumbing at the slit. He squeezes a little harder and picks up the pace, every muscle and nerve tight and coiled. He thinks of Kurt’s fingers, long and slender and wet and wrapped around Blaine’s dick, _god_. He could come so easily from this; he’s been worked up for a little while and the lube is doing wonders for him.

The thing is, there are so many fantasies Blaine could employ to help him come. He could imagine Kurt doing any number of things, and while Blaine definitely wants to be able to do so many of those things _with_ Kurt, he figures it’s smarter to ration out his fantasies for the time being, at least until some of them start coming true.

Blaine coats his hand in more lube and hoists his legs up a little, fingers trailing down to his hole. Again, he focuses on the image of Kurt’s fingers, and he tries to keep it in sharp clarity as his eyes fall shut and he slowly starts to work himself open. One finger, then two, the tease of the pads of Kurt’s fingers against his hole before working them inside. Blaine moans softly and bucks his hips down. He can’t quite lose himself completely in the fantasy of Kurt fingering him open; the angle is awkward and Blaine’s fingers are different, but the idea of it is enough to get him to relax.

In Blaine’s mind, Kurt’s touch takes Blaine apart into tiny pieces only to put them -- him -- back together again.

Strung out and on edge, Blaine withdraws his fingers and sits up a little, clumsily searching through the box on his nightstand until he unearths his prize -- a fantastic, cerulean blue vibrating dildo. He coats the dildo in lube and flips over, pulling himself up to his knees. It’s the easiest angle to use toys like this one, usually, even if he has to twist and angle his arm a little awkwardly to maneuver the dildo behind him. The blunt head of the dildo finally catches and drags on the rim of his hole, and Blaine moves it in a circular pattern around the rim, teasing himself. He’s not entirely sure he can imagine what Kurt would feel like, here, but as Blaine starts to push the dildo inside, he finds it’s not actually all that difficult at all.

In, out, Blaine works the dildo a little until he’s comfortable, imagining Kurt’s hips meeting his ass. He imagines opening up to Kurt in ways he hasn’t already, Kurt draped across Blaine’s back to stay close. Blaine twists the base of the toy and jolts a little as the dildo starts to vibrate. It’s on the lowest setting, but Blaine can feel it all throughout his ass, the vibrations a dull but pleasant pressure on his prostate. He works the dildo in a little harder, a little faster, imagines Kurt’s hands anchoring on his waist as they move.

Sex has got to be so much better than this. Blaine is sweating from exertion and all of the fantasy in the world doesn’t make up for the fact that Kurt isn’t here when Blaine wants him to be. He imagines Kurt touching him, yes, but that’s not what this is supposed to be about. He’s supposed to reclaim himself and his body so that he feels like he has control over it. If he can do that, he can touch Kurt and feel more sure of himself, even if he’s never done it before. This is about Blaine, of course it is, but it’s not _just_ about him -- that’s sort of the entire point.

Awkwardly and a little uncomfortably, Blaine rearranges himself so that he’s lying flat on his stomach, dick hard and trapped between his body and the mattress. He still keeps one hand gripped onto the base of the dildo, but he moves his other hand up to his neck, fingers slipping against the sweat. He imagines what it would be like to reach his hand back and touch Kurt’s neck like this, imagines the soft little moans Kurt makes when they’re kissing amplified tenfold. Blaine twists the base of the dildo to turn it up, and he can feel the vibrations all the way down his legs and up his spine. His toes curl at the pleasure he feels from the vibrations against his prostate and he gasps, fucking himself hard with the dildo. He imagines Kurt unable to help himself, unable to hold back, imagines their legs tangled together and Kurt’s face tucked against Blaine’s neck, their fingers intertwined. He can almost feel it, Kurt’s breath hot and damp against the back of his neck, and Blaine lets out a whimper as he turns the vibrator up as high as it can go.

His legs are trembling -- _Kurt’s leg hair drags against Blaine’s_ \--and he’s fucking his hips forward against the mattress -- _Kurt’s hand wraps around his dick_ \-- as much as he can without losing his grip on the dildo -- _there’s not a hand there at all, just Kurt, in him and all around him and fucking into Blaine wildly and_ \--

\-- and the vibrator becomes too much against his prostate and he has just the right amount of pressure and friction against his dick and next time, he wants to imagine making _Kurt_ fall apart with his touch --

Blaine half-buries his face into the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, mouth gaping in a silent scream as his whole body goes taut and he comes all over his comforter. He gasps through it, body convulsing with pleasure, and the second he starts to come down, he twists the base until the vibrator turns off and pulls the dildo out as quickly as he can, unable to keep it there any longer. He drops the dildo onto the comforter carelessly; the whole thing is dirty now, anyway, stained with come. He’ll have to wash it today, but he can’t bring himself to care that much right now. He flips over onto his back, wincing a little at how sore his ass is, and exhales shakily, trying to catch his breath. His hands are sticky and his whole body still feels like it’s vibrating and his vision is filled with stars.

Holy _shit_.

He smiles, breathless and undone and feeling a little like he’s been electrocuted.

He feels _victorious_.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s just released a lot of tension, but imagining Kurt here with him like this has made a world of difference. Blaine has memories he can recall to help recreate the feeling: the press of Kurt’s body on top of his own; Kurt’s arms wrapping around him; Kurt’s lips on his skin; the touch of fingertips.

It all started with a touch of fingertips.

He feels... bolstered, now. He may have made it all up in his head, but in a weird way, that’s kind of what’s so perfect about it. His fantasy has started to help prepare him for what the real thing _might_ be like, even if the real thing is mostly different. And he’s okay with it being different. He’s okay with it not being what he envisions. He knows Kurt well enough now to know that as difficult as Kurt finds their relationship at times, he’s not going anywhere. And while Blaine certainly doesn’t want to take advantage of that again, he does want to use it to help him feel comfortable getting closer to Kurt.

Kurt always comes back.

Blaine’s phone starts to ring on the nightstand, startling him out of his thoughts. Half-lazily, half-rushed, Blaine rolls over on the comforter, careful to avoid the wet spot in the center and the now-still dildo. He swears as he tries to wipe off his hands with a couple of tissues and settles for getting one hand mostly dry before he reaches for his phone. “Hello?” he answers breathlessly.

“Does it count as calling ahead of time if I’m standing outside of your front door?” Kurt asks, teasing.

Blaine barks out a laugh and relaxes against the pillows again. “No,” he says, teasing back, “but luckily, I don’t mind.”

A pause, and then, “So... are you going to let me in?”

Blaine blinks a little, sluggishly sitting back up. Wow, his brain is just _gone_. The synapses start to fire a little more rapidly, though, once he glances around the bed and surveys the state of things. The comforter is a mess and there’s a _dildo_ on the bed and Blaine is _naked_ , for crying out loud. He’s not ashamed of what he’s done, not at all, but he’s not exactly prepared to welcome company right now. And even though this is his boyfriend and Blaine has made progress today, he still needs a little more time. He realizes, now, that he can’t expect to progress physically in his relationship with Kurt if he doesn’t make a little more progress emotionally, first. And to do that, Blaine’s going to have to start talking.

In, out. Change doesn’t happen overnight.

“Blaine?”

“Um, yeah,” he answers distractedly, pushing himself to his feet and wobbling a little. “I was just... in the middle of something. I just need to -- give me a minute, I’ll be right there.” He hangs up the phone and glances around the bedroom, trying to figure out the best way to approach the situation.

Clothes first. Quickly, he hops and shrugs back into his underwear and jeans and undershirt before glancing around the room again. There’s so much that needs to be done -- he needs to clean off the dildo and put the box away and throw away the tissues and take the comforter down to the laundry room. But he doesn’t want to keep Kurt waiting outside for too long, not when he could ask Kurt to wait inside for a few minutes, so Blaine opts for quickly washing his hands in the bathroom instead. He shuts his bedroom door behind him and hurries to the kitchen to open the front door.

Kurt’s smiling bemusedly at him when he does, eyebrow arching as he gives Blaine a once-over. “Well,” he drawls, closing the distance between them and hooking a couple of fingers under one of the straps of Blaine’s undershirt, “hello there.”

Kurt’s fingers brush against his skin and Blaine’s breath catches in his chest.

Every inch of his skin still feels like it’s vibrating.

And _oh_ , Blaine hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed having Kurt present earlier. The pure physicality of him -- tangible and real and all Blaine’s to touch -- is so much better than any fantasy or memory. And Blaine can’t help himself -- he wants to be, has to be, needs to be closer. Any distance between them is absolutely gone as Blaine leans in and presses their lips together. _This_ is what he’d been missing earlier. It’s staggering, the difference a simple kiss makes. And as Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine and kisses back, Blaine feels his skin thrum with possibility.

Kurt touches him, and it feels like waking up.

* * * * *

_Saturday, 23 May 2020_

“Blaine, your eyes are donuts.”

_That_ snaps Blaine out of his daze, and he looks over at Emma standing next to him at their station, bewildered. “They’re what?”

“Donuts,” she repeats. When she sees that Blaine still is confused, she adds, “They’re glazed over. You know, because some donuts are -- nevermind.”

Blaine grins and bursts out laughing, shaking his head and turning his attention back to the items set up on their station. “I love you for using food puns in cooking class, even if they’re bad ones.”

She nudges his arm companionably through his own, her sweater-covered arm brushing against his skin. “Give me a little time to work on it,” she teases. “I bet I can make it work for a pamphlet about drugs or something.”

They fall silent for a few moments, listening to their instructor set up the lesson for the night. Blaine’s shoulders fall at the mention of the use of duck. Emma’s finally feeling up to attending class again, but Blaine isn’t going to be a very apt partner tonight. Their instructor gives them a few moments to orient themselves with their materials and supplies, and Blaine turns to Emma with an apologetic sigh. “Duck is sort of my one weakness when it comes to cooking. I can never get it to turn out quite the way I want it to.”

Emma, surprisingly, smiles. “It’s a good thing you asked me to be your partner, then,” she says brightly. She leans in a little and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “It’s kind of one of my strengths.”

Blaine grins. “You lead, I follow?”

Emma nods and reaches for the box of disposable gloves she’s brought with her. “Consider it some thank-you-guidance,” she says, slipping her hands into a pair of gloves, nodding toward their food supply. “Why don’t you start handling the food?” she suggests. “I’ll do a quick clean of the rest of the cooking supplies.”

He arches an eyebrow and switches places with her so she can be next to the sink. “You trust me to handle the food?”

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” she laughs.

He studies her for a moment, remembering how different she’d been only a month ago. He slips his hands into his own pair of gloves for her benefit and starts to wash the vegetable companions. “How _are_ you?” he ventures.

She doesn’t look over at him while she cleans, but he can see her struggle in her shoulders, in the way they tense and then relax at the question. “Okay,” she answers finally, turning off the faucet and wow, that _was_ a quick clean. She picks up a hand towel first and then sets it down, opting for paper towels instead. “I took your advice and spoke up about my medication.”

“Did you get prescribed something different?” he asks, turning a burner on and taking a now-clean pot from Emma for their sauce.

“I did,” she affirms, drying off the last of the dishes. “I haven’t been on it for very long, but I -- it’s not that I feel better, exactly. I mean, I do. I don’t feel as awful as I did before. It’s just... still an adjustment.” Blaine nods in understanding and drops the subject, staring apprehensively at the duck in front of them. “That’s kind of what cooking is all about, actually,” she says thoughtfully, switching out the gloves she has on for a new pair. “Or, well, that’s what learning to cook is like. It’s all about making adjustments.”

“Show me?”

Emma shakes her head moves around him again, adding the ingredients for their sauce to the pot. “I have a feeling that you’ll learn better if you do it yourself. Don’t worry,” she adds, laughing when he looks a little crestfallen and nervous, “I’ll help you.” And she does, but she tries to mostly let him do things himself, offering guidance when he looks a little confused and suggestions when she has better ideas. His hands twitch nervously as the duck cooks in the pan, and he can’t bring himself to wait very long before he moves his tongs toward the stove to check on it. Emma’s gloved hand brushes against the back of his own, giving him pause. “Give it time,” she advises quietly. “It’ll cook better if you’re not constantly turning it.”

“I just don’t want to overcook it or burn it or anything,” he explains.

“You won’t,” she assures him. “And if you do, then you’ll learn from it and try again.”

“Adjustments,” Blaine sighs, setting the tongs down.

Emma offers him a small smile. “You’d be surprised at the difference they can make. A few small adjustments along the way can make a big difference in the overall product or outcome.”

“As we have daily proof,” he laughs dryly.

Her smile fades and she drops her gaze back down to the pot, stirring the sauce. “I was... _so_ afraid of change for so long. Everything has to be done a very particular way and even thinking about change was just kind of... impossible,” she breathes. “I got so far down that I couldn’t see anything for what it really was anymore. So I got a divorce and I moved out here and I tried getting help, but I just felt so... disoriented.” She’s quiet for a moment, turning her attention to their vegetable medley, before she speaks again. “Things are different, now. Things are changing, and they’re... getting better, even if it’s slow-going. It’s like -- it’s like I’m finally starting to be able to see a little more clearly again. It’s like --”

“Waking up?” Blaine supplies quietly.

She lifts her gaze back up to look at him and nods. “Exactly.” The moment of understanding hangs there between them before she gestures toward the pan with duck. “You can turn it over now.” Blaine does as he’s instructed, reaching for the tongs and holding his breath while he turns the duck breast over.

It’s a perfect golden brown.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Emma teases, nudging his elbow with her own again.

Blaine thinks of Kurt and realizes that she’s right.

It’s time.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 27 May 2020_

Birthdays are a time of celebration.

Blaine takes the opportunity to do something really nice for his now twenty-seven-year-old boyfriend.

He also takes it for just that -- an opportunity.

Blaine has so much that he has left to give, but this may be the most important.

“I think you’ve finally done it,” Kurt announces with a slight yawn. “That duck was _perfect_. What did you do?”

Blaine smiles and settles down on the couch next to him. “I made some adjustments.”

“Mm, well thank you,” Kurt hums pleasantly, resting his cheek against the back of the couch. “I normally have to pay for a dinner that nice.”

Blaine blushes a little, flattered, and reaches out to traces circles on Kurt’s knee with his fingertips. “There might also be a cheesecake in the fridge, once you’ve come out of your food coma.”

Kurt sits upright almost immediately, suddenly much more alert. “I _always_ have room for cheesecake, Blaine,” he says seriously.

Blaine laughs and leans in to press a warm kiss to Kurt’s lips. “Good things come to those who wait,” he teases. “Besides, I have something else for you.”

Kurt’s answering smile is warm and fond, and he visibly relaxes. “You spoil me.”

“Careful,” Blaine chides, picking up the carefully wrapped gift he’d set on the coffee table earlier, “or I might think that you’re not used to people being nice to you, either.”

“I’m a police officer,” Kurt laughs. “The chances are about fifty-fifty.” Blaine rolls his eyes and hands over the gift, squirming a little in anticipation. Kurt takes it from him and unwraps it carefully, eyes sparkling when he sees what it’s inside. “This one was my favorite of the bunch,” he sighs happily, lifting the framed photograph of them out of the box.

“I know.”

Kurt runs his thumb along the frame as his eyes rake over the picture. “This is perfect -- it’ll go right on my nightstand at home.” He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Blaine’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“There’s... something else,” Blaine says.

Kurt sets the box back down on the coffee table, face lighting up. “Is this going to turn into Blaine Anderson’s version of Oprah’s favorite things or something? The Kurt Hummel birthday edition?”

Blaine laughs nervously and shakes his head. “Actually, I, um --” In, out. He can do this. “There are some things I wanted to talk to you about. Some things I wanted to tell you.”

A little of the color drains from Kurt’s face, then, and he reaches out to touch Blaine’s knee. “Blaine,” he says, quiet but firm, “please don’t feel like you owe me any explanations just because it’s my birthday.”

“I -- I don’t -- it’s not like that,” Blaine assures him, struggling to maintain proper use of his words. “This is actually much more selfish than you probably realize.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Kurt argues.

“Kurt,” Blaine says firmly, “I’m ready.” Kurt inhales sharply -- _in, up, out, down_ \-- and removes his hand. The loss stings a little, at first, until Blaine realizes that Kurt’s doing it to give Blaine a little space. Kurt nods, just once, and Blaine draws in a breath, trying to figure out where exactly to -- how exactly to -- what exactly he should -- “I’m a recluse.” No, that’s not it, not exactly, not that way, he doesn’t know how to -- “I mean, I was,” Blaine corrects, trying to sort out his thoughts. “I’m not -- I don’t know what the exact qualifications are for it or anything, if there’s some sort of time requirement or parameters to be considered --”

“Blaine,” Kurt cuts in gently, “you’re babbling.”

Blaine closes his eyes and tries to calm down and focus. In, up, down, out. “Sorry,” he breathes. “It’s just -- this is a lot for me. I’ve never really told anyone any of this outside of a... certain setting.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt assures him. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? It’s a very good place to start,” he says reasonably, a hint of teasing in his voice.

Blaine relaxes a little. Kurt reminds him so much of Tracie sometimes, or of Emma, and Marley reminds him of Kurt and all of the people in his life are starting to fit together in ways he never could have imagined.

In, out, and Blaine starts at the beginning. “I came out when I was fourteen. And at the time, there was only one other guy out at my school, which I guess in hindsight seems a little odd to me.” Blaine shakes his head a little and tries to focus. “Anyway, there was this dance -- Sadie Hawkins. Obviously none of the girls were going to ask us to go, so I asked him if he wanted to go as friends. It wasn’t -- it wasn’t even really a date, honestly. We just wanted to go and we didn’t want to go alone.”

“How was it?”

Blaine shrugs a little indifferently. “Fine, I guess. The whole evening was just kind of... fine until --”

“Until?” Kurt prompts gently.

In, out. Blaine rubs his palms against the tops of his thighs, trying to focus on words instead of images. “We left the dance together,” he says. “We were -- we’d decided to just walk back to his house. He did it every day after school. He didn’t live that far. It was just... so close. And his parents were going to let me stay in the guest room and everything.” Heart thundering traitorously, Blaine’s eyes slip shut, giving way to the memories he’s tried for so long to forget. “These three guys followed us from the dance,” he says dully. “And we knew -- we _knew_ what they wanted, so we did the only thing we could do. We ran.” In, out, heartbeat out of time and his breathing is growing shallow and it’s like he’s there all over again. “We ran and they chased us down the sidewalk and into an alley and backed us into a corner. One of them had a bat.”

Blaine opens his eyes at the touch of Kurt’s fingers brushing against the back of his hand. The spark is _gone_ from Kurt’s eyes, replaced with a sympathetic -- and perhaps slightly pained -- mist. Blaine doesn’t want that -- he doesn’t want Kurt feeling sorry for him, especially when it happened so long ago (ten years, over ten years, the threat doesn’t exist anymore, he is twenty-five and not fourteen). He just -- he needs Kurt to know. He _wants_ Kurt to know.

“Are you okay?” Kurt asks, pulling Blaine’s focus. “Do you -- do you need your medication? You’re breathing kind of hard.” Blaine purses his lips and shakes his head. He doesn’t need -- he doesn’t want to need it. He just wants to get through this. “ _Blaine_ \--”

“Don’t,” Blaine gasps. “ _Please_ , just... let me get this out. This isn’t even necessarily the hard part.” Kurt bites his lip and starts to pull his hand away, but Blaine latches on, needing the anchor to the present. “Please,” he whispers. “Don’t let go.”

In, out, here, now.

“In the alley, they -- they beat the shit out of us,” he breathes, hoping Kurt doesn’t interrupt again. Blaine doesn’t want to go into much detail, and there are more important parts to this story. “We -- the boy I went with and I -- both ended up in the hospital for a little while. And when I finally got home, I just... didn’t want to go back out. It wasn’t -- it wasn’t so much that I was afraid of having the crap beaten out of me again. I mean, I was, obviously, but it wasn’t what I focused on during recovery. I was more bothered by _why_ it happened. They did it because they didn’t like who we were, and I just --” In, out, and this is the hardest part, because he knows the words will strike a chord with Kurt. “There was something they said, in the alley, that just... really stuck with me. _We’re going to show the world just how ugly you really are_.” The words are still difficult to swallow, even now, and Kurt’s breath catches, validating Blaine’s predictions.

“You’re not,” Kurt says earnestly.

“I know,” Blaine placates, hoping to curb the intended interruption. “I never thought I was. I -- I’m comfortable with who I am. I know there’s nothing wrong with me. But I... took it kind of hard. I just -- if there were people in the world who were capable of that, people who saw me that way...” He tapers off and meets Kurt’s eyes again, hands still clasped tight between them. “The world can be an ugly place. It can be full of ugly people who do ugly things. And I didn’t want to be a part of that.”

In, out, and Blaine can see the information start to settle into Kurt’s skin. Kurt _gets it_ , and he only proves that further to Blaine when he says, “So you stayed inside.”

Blaine nods. “For ten years,” he elaborates, feeling a little uncomfortable at Kurt’s slight sharp intake of breath. “I -- my parents tried to help, in the beginning. I developed anxiety and panic disorder and acute agoraphobia. I literally couldn’t leave the house, so they set me up with a psychiatrist to see if I could get put on medication. It took a year to sort everything out, but by the time I was fifteen, I was on the right medication and was seeing a therapist -- my therapist, Tracie -- once a week. I still see her now, and I started going to a support group in March.” He pauses, expecting an interruption, but Kurt merely squeezes his hand encouragingly, urging him to continue. “I got my G.E.D. and went to a college online, and the only time I went outside in ten years was the day I moved out of my parents’ place and into this apartment, until --”

“-- until the day you met me,” Kurt breathes. Blaine blinks his surprise and nods. “What were you even _doing_ there?”

“My brother,” Blaine sighs, trying to relax a little. “Cooper dragged me out to spend some time with me before production started on his new film. And he didn’t know about any of this, but --”

“Your brother didn’t know that you hadn’t been outside in ten years?” Kurt asks incredulously. “He didn’t know about your anxiety or your panic attacks or anything?”

Blaine shakes his head and rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, feeling a little like he’ being judged. “No,” he defends. “You saw me when things were tense with my mom, Kurt. None of my family have ever been able to really talk about it without being uncomfortable. _I_ don’t like talking about it most of the time, even with Tracie sometimes. Cooper -- he lives in Los Angeles. By the time he even came home and could get caught up to speed, none of us really felt like trying to explain it to him. He knew I’d been in the hospital because some guys had taken a baseball bat to my ribs, and after that, he knew that I didn’t really get out much.”

“I just -- I don’t understand how you don’t tell your brother something like this,” Kurt says.

“Can you just... not?” Blaine snaps. “This is hard enough for me to tell you, Kurt, and I trust you a lot more than I trust my brother. You helped me out of the situation he put me in. And it -- it took my mom and I three months before we made up, and --”

“Hey, hey,” Kurt says gently, reaching forward and cupping Blaine’s face in his hands. “Okay, it’s okay, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to attack you or anything, I just --” He stops abruptly, pulling back and clapping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, slowly lowering his hand. “That was an awful choice of words, I --”

Blaine leans forward and kisses Kurt quiet. “No,” he says quietly. “Perfect choice of words, actually. I needed to hear that.”

Kurt smiles weakly and takes Blaine’s hands in his again, eyes lowered. “You said you were a recluse,” he says. “As in past tense.” He lifts his eyes, and Blaine holds his breath. “What changed?”

“A lot of things,” Blaine answers with a sigh. His mouth twitches into a smile. “You.”

Kurt’s eyes spark to life, and Blaine breathes.

“Let me be really clear about something,” Blaine says, barreling on. “I didn’t start going outside again because of you. You were certainly a part of it, but you didn’t cure me or anything like that. I’m not -- it doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, of course not,” Kurt says reasonably. “That implies that there’s something wrong with you in the first place.”

And just as quickly as he gave it back, Kurt takes Blaine’s breath away. Suddenly, Kurt’s hands aren’t enough; Blaine needs more contact. He needs the spark to restart his system, needs to touch, needs to breathe, needs Kurt to understand more than anything that Blaine is _grateful_ that Kurt understands. Blaine curls in close and buries his face into Kurt’s neck, exhaling slowly. He closes his eyes and rests a hand over Kurt’s heart, feeling the _th -- thump_ under his fingertips.

_Like waking up_.

Blaine opens his eyes.

He is absolutely, head-over-heels, completely in love with Kurt.

Blaine’s heart starts to beat again, even and steady. In, out.

“So why did you?” Kurt ventures after a few minutes, arms wrapped comfortably around Blaine.

“The world can be an ugly place,” Blaine murmurs. “You reminded me that it doesn’t always have to be that way -- that it _isn’t_ always that way. You gave me hope, Kurt. You made me want to try -- not for you, or my parents, or anyone else, but for myself. I wanted -- I wanted to try, to change my perception of the world. You helped get me started, Kurt, but I was the one who put my foot out the front door.”

“I believe it,” Kurt says warmly. “You can keep going, if you need to. I’m listening.”

“I think that’s most of the important stuff,” Blaine sighs, snuggling closer. “If something comes up, I’ll try to make sure I tell you. I can’t promise it’ll always be easy.” He pauses and lifts his head up a little to look at Kurt, biting his lip. “Are you okay?” he ventures tentatively. “I know this is probably a lot for you to take in.”

“It is,” Kurt allows, but he doesn’t move or pull away. “But so much more makes sense to me now.”

“Like?”

“Like --” Kurt stops and sits up a little, meeting Blaine’s eyes. He looks... nervous, which makes Blaine want to feel nervous, but Blaine tries not to make assumptions and jump to conclusions. “The dance,” Kurt says slowly. “You said it wasn’t really a date.”

“Not really, no.”

“And you never saw anyone after that,” Kurt continues, eyes drifting to the floor, unfocused. “You never -- did you ever have anyone over? Did you have any friends, even online?”

“No,” Blaine answers quietly, not particularly liking the direction this conversation is going. He needed Kurt to know about his past because it affects who Blaine is in the present, but Blaine doesn’t want to dwell on the past. He’s trying -- very hard -- to move forward and make progress. He’ll answer any questions Kurt has, if he can, but he hopes there aren’t many beyond tonight.

“So... Valentine’s Day,” Kurt concludes. “That was... your first date?”

Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile. “For all five minutes that I knew it was a date, yes.”

Kurt flicks his gaze up to meet Blaine’s eyes, a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “And your first kiss?”

Blaine lets the smile blossom onto his face, and he leans in close again, breath ghosting over Kurt’s lips. “A breathtaking first kiss.”

“And your first real boyfriend --”

“ _Yes_ ,” Blaine breathes impatiently, crawling until he’s practically in Kurt’s lap. “You’re pretty much my first real everything. Can I kiss you now?”

Kurt answers with a gasp as Blaine sucks open-mouthed kisses along the column of Kurt’s throat, but Kurt only allows the touch for a moment before pushing at Blaine’s shoulder to put some distance between them. “You’re -- are you a virgin?”

Blaine rolls his eyes good-naturedly and gives up, settling down next to Kurt on the couch. “I’m kind of surprised it took you this long to reach that conclusion, honestly.”

“So that panic attack you had -- that was because you haven’t had sex before?”

“Well, yeah,” Blaine says, thinking that much should be obvious by now. “I mean -- okay, weren’t you nervous when you were getting ready to fire a gun for the first time?”

Kurt gives him an odd look. “I wouldn’t compare sex to firing a gun, Blaine.”

“Really?” Blaine chides, grinning. “Because I would.”

Kurt looks taken aback at that, seemingly at a loss for words, but the joke in the comparison only takes a minute to sink in and then they’re _both_ laughing. “Oh my _god_ , Blaine.”

Their laughter tapers off after a few minutes, both of them smiling from cheek to cheek, knees knocking against each other. “On a more serious note,” Blaine allows, “there is the other comparison -- the fear of hurting someone.”

Kurt reaches over and links their fingers together. “It’s normal to be nervous about your first time.”

“I’m... actually not all that nervous anymore,” Blaine admits, scooting a little closer. “I mean, I am, a little, of course, but not enough to hold me back.” He lifts up Kurt’s hand and presses a kiss to Kurt’s knuckles. “I feel safe with you. And I’m... hoping you still feel the same.”

“Wait,” Kurt interjects slowly. “So you’re seriously contemplating doing this?”

“Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes,” Blaine laughs.

“Wow,” Kurt huffs, leaning against the back of the couch a little dramatically, eyes trained on the ceiling. “Okay, no pressure.”

Blaine’s brow knits in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Kurt’s face softens when he looks back over at Blaine. “Believe it or not, Blaine, you’re not the only one getting ready to experience some firsts, here.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that you were a virgin.”

“I’m not,” Kurt affirms. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve taken someone’s virginity before. It’s -- I don’t know, it kind of feels like a lot of responsibility.”

Blaine bites his lip and runs his thumb along the back of Kurt’s hand. “Dealbreaker?”

Kurt shakes his head. “No, just... not quite the birthday present I was expecting,” he admits with a slight laugh. “I think I could use some of that cheesecake now.”

Blaine leans in and presses a grateful kiss to Kurt’s cheek. “One cheesecake detox, coming right up.”

In the kitchen, Blaine sticks a brightly colored candle in the center of the cheesecake.

He definitely feels like celebrating.

* * * * *


	9. June

** June **

_Wednesday, 10 June 2020_

Blaine can’t keep his hands off of Kurt.

Literally, actually can’t.

It’s like any wall that was between them is _gone_ , and now that Blaine feels comfortable enough to really touch, he can’t seem to stop. It doesn’t help that it’s getting warmer outside. Blaine feels a little stifled no matter where he goes or who he’s with. Kurt starts wearing fewer, thinner layers, and suddenly there is so much more skin available for Blaine to touch.

And touch Blaine does. He gets his hands on every inch of Kurt’s skin that he can after Kurt’s birthday. Now, for instance, while Kurt is on top of him and they’re kissing fairly feverishly on the couch, Blaine makes contact in as many places as possible. His toes are teasing at Kurt’s ankles and his lips are buzzing pleasantly against Kurt’s; he has one hand caressing the skin of Kurt’s stomach and the other trailing down Kurt’s back, nails dragging against the skin. Blaine kisses him hard and fast and dirty, not wanting to break the flow of the current between them even for a second.

Legs open and Kurt nestled between them, body still from the hips down, it’s not enough. Blaine drags Kurt’s lower lip between his teeth in time with his nails on Kurt’s back. Kurt whimpers in response, arms trembling in an effort to keep himself propped up above Blaine. Encouraged, Blaine dips his head down so that he can start to suck wet, open-mouthed kisses down Kurt’s throat. More than anything, Blaine wishes there were less clothes between them. He wants to make Kurt fall apart under his touch.

He wants to turn his fantasy into reality.

He tries to take a backwards approach and use his touch to make Kurt fall apart enough to want to take more clothes off. Like this shirt, this stupid shirt that Kurt, admittedly, looks very attractive in. Right now, it’s in the way of what Blaine wants, which is to have it gone along with his own so that he can pull Kurt down against him, bare chest to bare chest. Blaine has been having to settle for slipping his hands up underneath Kurt’s shirt, and while Blaine certainly isn’t complaining, it’s just not enough. It’s just like the weight of Kurt settled on top of him and between his legs -- it’s there, and it’s certainly doing things for him, but it’s not what Blaine really wants. It’s not what he needs.

Determined and a little desperate, Blaine drags his mouth back over to Kurt’s, sliding his tongue inside. He moves the hand that’s anchored along Kurt’s back down to Kurt’s ass, squeezing firmly over the material of Kurt’s stupidly tight jeans. Kurt wrenches his mouth away, gasping, and Blaine’s dick twitches in response. Blaine recaptures his mouth instantly, needing the difference a kiss makes as well as more friction for his dick. The subtle roll of Kurt’s torso against his own has been nice, but Blaine needs Kurt’s hips to _move_. Feeling a little daring, Blaine maneuvers the hand he’s had anchored at Kurt’s stomach around to the small of Kurt’s back. Down, down, down his hand goes, fingers fumbling a little as he tries to dip them beneath the waistband. Kurt moans into his mouth just as Blaine gets his hand inside, fingers working furiously to snap up the waistband of Kurt’s underwear. Finally, _finally_ , Blaine gets his hand all the way inside, both a contrast and a parallel to where his other hand is at the moment. With both hands on Kurt’s ass -- one through layers, the other directly skin on skin -- Blaine arches his back a little, lifting his hips, and squeezes. Kurt’s hips buck forward immediately, rutting against Blaine and it’s _perfect_ \--

And then, maddeningly, Kurt stops, tearing his lips away and putting a little space between them. “Okay,” Kurt gasps, panting a little. “Okay, we should -- I should probably go.”

Blaine blinks rapidly, propping himself up on his elbows, hands slipping out of Kurt’s pants. Blaine’s blood is nowhere near his brain right now. “What?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Kurt says airily, awkwardly climbing off of Blaine. “I, um, I don’t want to stay too late. You know, work early in the morning.” He sits up and starts to tug his socks and shoes back on, very clearly not looking Blaine in the eye.

“Right,” Blaine says faintly, falling back against the throw pillow.

Kurt leans in again and presses a too-quick kiss to the corner of Blaine’s mouth. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” He’s up and off the couch before Blaine can even begin to think of answering.

Blaine closes his eyes and steels himself for what he knows he’s about to discover. In, out, eyes open and he checks his wristwatch. “Kurt?” he calls, letting his hand fall to the couch with a mundane _thud_.

“Hmm?”

“It’s seven o’clock,” Blaine says. “On a Wednesday. You don’t even work on Thursdays.” A beat, and Kurt doesn’t move from where he stands behind the couch. His back is to Blaine but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and his immobility spurs Blaine into action. Blaine pushes himself up off of the couch and moves to stand a few feet behind Kurt. In, out, fingers flexed. “This is like the fourth time in two weeks that you’ve done something like this.”

“So?” Kurt says, voice pitching a little high.

“So I know that you’ve been deliberately not having sex with me.”

One beat, and then another. Blaine’s heart keeps the time until Kurt turns around slowly, both resignation and defiance evident in his eyes. “What do you want me to do?” Kurt says bitterly. “Deny it?”

“No,” Blaine insists, taking a step closer. “I want to know _why_ , Kurt. I thought --” He rubs at the back of his neck, tense and uncomfortable. “I thought that things would be better once I’d told you. I thought they’d be easier.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not,” Kurt snaps, and Blaine recoils a little, stung. “Did you ever consider that while your confession may have enabled you to feel comfortable with sex, it might have made me uncomfortable?“

Blaine’s shoulders fall. “You said it wasn’t a deal breaker.”

“That’s not --” Kurt closes his eyes and breathes in and out very slowly, clearly trying not to get angry. “Just because you’re ready to give your virginity, Blaine, doesn’t mean I’m ready to take it.”

“But you said -- you said you couldn’t keep your hands off of me. And -- and now that I’m ready --”

“God, Blaine, I didn’t give you this much grief when you wanted to put the brakes on,” Kurt huffs impatiently. “Or was that only okay when you did it?”

“That’s not fair,” Blaine says shakily. “I have _an anxiety disorder_. I’m a virgin. I --”

“That’s exactly my point,” Kurt exclaims, a little hysterical. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

“ _Thanking_ you?” Blaine echoes incredulously.

“Sex isn’t something you just _do_ , Blaine, okay?” Kurt snaps. “Your first time isn’t something you can get back. You should take the time to do it right, if you can, but you’re not, so --”

“So what?” Blaine presses, blood boiling. “So you’re doing it for me?”

“I’m trying to do something nice for you,” Kurt argues.

“No, you’re not,” Blaine says thinly. “This isn’t your call to make, Kurt. I’m an adult. I’m twenty-five, not fourteen. And I don’t need you to coddle me. I don’t need you to protect me out of some twisted sense of --”

“I can’t just shut off who I am, Blaine! This is who I am, this is what I _do_. I spend my life protecting people.”

“Your _job_ is to protect people,” Blaine corrects. “But I’m not just some random citizen, Kurt. I’m your _boyfriend_. And I don’t want you to treat me like work. I don’t want you to treat me like -- like I’m some _project_.” He’s a little hysterical now, frustrated and confused and more than a little hurt. He can’t help the tears that well up in his eyes or the way his throat feels thick, and he tries to focus on something logical. “I’m not hung up on this anymore. I don’t understand why you still are. It’s sex, Kurt, it’s not like --”

“-- firing a gun?” Kurt says, voice low and cold and uneven like he’s having trouble keeping it together, too. “It is... _exactly_ like firing a gun, Blaine. You only have one opportunity, one shot to get it right. All it takes is _one shot_ , one pull of a trigger, one touch of a finger to inflict... _so_ much damage.”

“I’m not broken,” Blaine snaps, angry and on the verge of tears. “I don’t need to be fixed. I’m not fragile. Please don’t treat me like I am.”

“But you _are_.”

Blaine stops cold.

And suddenly, the world is pulled out from underneath him. He isn’t beautiful anymore -- he’s _fragile_. His heart has stopped beating and the sparks in his skin flicker out and he’s falling asleep -- wake up, wake up, he has to wake up.

In, out. He is breathing.

“I think I know myself and my limitations better than you do,” Blaine says thinly. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Kurt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I meant --”

“Then what _did_ you mean?” Blaine asks, brushing furiously at his eyes to try and catch the first couple of tears that fall. “Because if this is how you see me, Kurt, then I don’t -- I can’t --”

“This isn’t just about you!” Kurt exclaims. “Other people have feelings, too, Blaine. I thought you would’ve learned that after your fight with your mother.” Blaine recoils, stung and wounded -- he’s _wounded_ , this is war, why is this war, why is this so hard? He feels like a mine has just blown up in his face. His skin feels dry and flaky and his heart has turned to ash and wake up, wake up, _wake up_. Kurt looks like he regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth, and Blaine knows the apology is coming before Kurt even opens his mouth. “Blaine, that’s not -- I didn’t mean --”

“Get out,” Blaine quavers, chest heaving. “I can’t be around you when you’re like this.”

“Blaine --”

“Get out,” Blaine gasps, gripping the back of the couch for support. “Get out, get out, get _out_.”

“Blaine, _no_ ,” Kurt says firmly, and suddenly he’s right there in front of Blaine, fingertips inches away and he can’t touch Blaine, he can’t, Blaine will fall apart if he does. “You’re having a panic attack. I’m not leaving you.”

“I don’t care,” Blaine rants, the quick, shallow breaths he’s taking not really registering with him. “I don’t care, get out, get out, I can’t do this, I can’t handle you being here if this is how you see me, I --” He sinks down to the floor and rests his back against the back of the couch, chest feeling suddenly tight. In, out, heart beating in triple time and Blaine feels like he’s a gun about to go off and --

Kurt places a pill in his hand, and Blaine feels anchored, like he’s floating adrift at sea. He tries to focus, eyes finding Kut’s like they’re a beacon. “Take this,” Kurt instructs.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not going to _fix me_ ,” Blaine bites out between gasps.

Kurt’s breathing is erratic now, too, but he keeps his composure. “Can you just... stop making assumptions about what I think and how I feel and just take the fucking pill?”

“No,” Blaine says again. “Leave me alone. Let me be angry.”

Kurt cries, then, probably close to losing it, but he sets his jaw and folds Blaine’s fingers into a fist. “Blaine,” he pleads, hands trembling, “ _please_. It’s going to help you with your panic attack. You know that.”

Blaine does know that, but there is so much that he doesn’t know. He can’t think straight. There isn’t enough air. Taking the extra dose during a panic attack does help, but it also makes him lethargic. And -- and Blaine doesn’t like to be touched, normally, but Kurt’s touch is calming, anchoring, electrifying. At least it has been, up until now. Blaine also doesn’t want to be alone, and he knows, he _knows_ that Kurt is doing the right thing by staying, making sure that Blaine is okay. And normally, Blaine wants him to stay, because Kurt makes Blaine feel safe. But Blaine’s not sure if he wants Kurt here right now, not after the scathing remark, not after their fight, their stupid, stupid fight that came out of nowhere and escalated so quickly. Kurt thinks that Blaine is fragile, and now Blaine is wondering how, exactly, Kurt sees him.

He can’t help but wonder if Kurt’s perception has changed. A change in perception is supposed to be a good thing. That’s what Blaine has been telling himself for months, now. Change isn’t necessarily bad, but right now, it’s hard to see it as anything but.

Blaine pops the pill into his mouth and lets Kurt help him take a sip of water to help him swallow. “Happy?” Blaine snaps bitterly, trembling.

Kurt ignores him and settles down on the floor next to him, resting his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. “Do you feel safe?”

“Why? Are you going to leave again?”

“You wanted me to not that long ago,” Kurt points out, sounding a little more calm and patient. “Do you still?”

Blaine rests one hand on his chest, settling the other on his abdomen. In, out, slower, deeper. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Do you feel safe?” Kurt asks again.

“I feel fragile,” Blaine says, the words feeling bitter and ashen in his mouth.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t answer any of mine,” Blaine retorts.

Kurt sighs and presses his hands against his eyes. “Why can’t you just accept that I don’t want to hurt you either? I don’t want to hurt you any more than you already have been.”

In, out, and Blaine is remarkably, inexplicably calm. His medication has never worked that fast before, and even without it, it usually takes ages before Blaine can calm down. He feels... alert and weirdly calm instead of lethargic like he normally does. He wonders, vaguely, if this is how soldiers feel when they’re in the middle of the battlefield and they know they’re about to die. “I’m going to get back up,” Blaine says resolutely. “I always do.”

Slowly, Kurt lifts his head to look over at Blaine. He looks... troubled, and upset and uncomfortable. His lips are pursed and Blaine can tell that there is _so_ much that he wants to say but won’t. It’s oddly reminiscent of the last panic attack Blaine had in front of Kurt, and he hates himself for remembering because it only ebbs his anger and validates some of Kurt’s arguments. Blaine is right. He feels justified in standing up for himself. But... the thing that stings more than it should is the remark about the fight he’d had with his mother. They had both been at fault, for different reasons, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Blaine remembers Tracie calling him out on making assumptions.

Blaine is turning on someone who, up until now, has been an ally. Now, he’s standing in the middle of a minefield not knowing where to take another step. What if he lands on another mine? What if he loses his ally? What if he loses all of the pieces of himself he’s been trying so, so hard to find and keep together?

What if his heart breaks?

Kurt startles Blaine out of his thoughts and anger and fading panic with a soft press of lips to Blaine’s forehead, and it’s with an incredible _ache_ that Blaine feels his heart begin to beat back to life.

It’s like waking up.

“That’s what you don’t understand,” Kurt whispers against his skin. “Not everyone does.”

Blaine pulls back a little, disoriented and bewildered. “So...what, you’re giving up before you even try? You’re just going to run away? Kurt, that doesn’t work. Believe me, I’ve tried. It just brought me pain.”

“Running headfirst into something without any preparation causes pain, too, Blaine,” Kurt insists.

Limitations are important.

Blaine doesn’t even know what Kurt’s are.

“Just --” Blaine struggles to sit up a little, feeling the medication starting to affect him. He feels suddenly sleepy for a moment and takes another to pull himself together. He anchors a hand on either side of Kurt’s face to keep himself upright, wishing he could still be at least a little livid. The adrenaline had helped in keeping him alert, but now that his anger is tapering off, Blaine finds himself struggling not to give way to sleep.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

“Please, stay,” Blaine breathes. He closes his eyes, unable to focus for a minute. “Please, just... talk to me.”

“You needed time before you could talk to me,” Kurt reminds him. “Now it’s my turn.” Kurt’s hands reach up to gently pry Blaine’s off of his face, causing Blaine to blink back into awareness, frustrated and weepy and too tired to care. “Be safe,” Kurt mumbles, pressing a kiss to Blaine’s knuckles before pushing himself to his feet.

“You can’t always protect me,” Blaine says tearfully, unable to keep himself from crying anymore. “I have to be able to do that myself.”

And Kurt is still crying and now he’s shaking his head and walking away and Blaine can’t get up, why can’t he get up? “I’m sorry,” Kurt whispers. “I can’t -- I can’t do this right now. I’m _sorry_.”

And then he’s gone, and only then can Blaine push himself to his feet.

In, out, one foot in front of the other.

Kurt needs his help.

They need to help each other.

Blaine stumbles toward the front door in the kitchen, bracing his hands against the wall just in case. He presses a palm flat against the front door when he gets there, reaching for the handle when he hears it.

Kurt is still here.

He’s just on the other side of the door.

Crying.

And just like that, the wall goes back up, and this time, it’s Kurt and only Kurt who has the power to break it down.

Blaine wants to go outside, but he can’t.

For the first time in a long time, he feels locked inside, looking out.

* * * * *

_Friday, 19 June 2020_

The war rages on.

The world keeps changing, the battlefield changing with it. The sun stays more often as summer settles in, illuminating more of the battlefield. Despite the supposed better visibility, Blaine feels lost and disoriented due to how blued and undefined the boundaries have become. With the battle taking place both inside and outside of his apartment, Blaine no longer feels safe.

He feels like he's losing.

He can't do this alone, and with each new injury, desertion, or casualty, he feels like he's getting closer and closer to being the only soldier left. Cooper has always been out of the question; he would never make a good ally. On the way into battle, Blaine had chosen to leave his parents behind, not wanting the distraction (and maybe a part of him wanted to minimize the potential for bloodshed). Tracie is an ally, but she doesn't serve on the field. Kurt has gone M.I.A., and while Emma is mending, she is still wounded and unable to really help.

His armor is damaged, too. His skin still shows invisible signs of the blast, feeling cracked and ashen. But he can feel himself -- the real him -- still present just underneath the surface, cracking and sparking and trying to get out. He feels stuck in the awkward in-between, almost like he’s in limbo, and he can’t get out without the proper tools.

So with clumsy, shaking hands, Blaine turns to weapons other than his words to help him cope. He starts spending more time in his kitchen than he normally does, more time than he spends even in front of his piano. Marley’s been out of town for a few weeks, back in California to see her mother and to work a little there. It’s the first time since he’s met her that she hasn’t been in New York and at his disposal. It’s a sharp, stinging reminder that her life isn’t actually here in New York, that she’s an unreliable ally. And when Blaine feels uncomfortable in his own skin, he could really use the help of someone who’s learning to be comfortable in hers.

Today is the first time since the seventh of January that Blaine hasn’t been outside except for when he was sick, and he spends it caught inside of white dust.

He’s just pulled his third pie of the day out of the oven (peaches are finally starting to be seasonably ripe again and Blaine wants to use them while he can) and is getting ready to start work on his fourth (cherry to join the peach and two apples) when there’s a knock on the front door. Blind and frazzled, Blaine lets the enemy inside with an absently called “Come in!”

It’s not the enemy.

It’s reinforcements.

Marley is clearly unprepared for the sight that greets her, and it’s with a quiet click of the door shutting behind her that she surveys Blaine at his station at the kitchen island. “Hey,” she says slowly, glancing around the kitchen.

“Hey,” he answers faintly.

“What’s... going on?”

“Oh, you know,” he answers absently, shrugging, “just baking.”

“Blaine,” she says plaintively, “what’s wrong?”

He shifts uncomfortably and drops his gaze to his supplies on the island. As _happy_ as he is to see her, he feels like his nerves are frayed enough as it is, and he’s on edge enough that the smallest thing might set him off.

God, he really hates feeling like a loaded gun or a ticking bomb.

“What makes you think that something’s wrong? he asks, voice pitching a little embarrassingly high.

“Because I know you,” she says, taking a step toward him, “and I know that you use baking as a coping mechanism. It looks like a flour bomb went off in here.”

“Would you like some pie?” he asks, a little hysterical because he is not alone, there is someone here to help him find his way again. “I have two apple and I just took a peach out of the oven and I was just about to start on a cherry --”

“ _Blaine_ ,” she says firmly, closing the distance between them and grabbing his forearm with her hand.

Any other words that come out of her mouth are lost to him at her touch. Blaine’s eyes zero in on where there skin is making contact, and it only takes a second for the spark to reach his heart. Gasping, he falls against her and bursts into tears.

Marley’s arms wrap around him almost instantly, hands rubbing at Blaine’s back soothingly. His hands reach for her waist, searching for an anchor, but he snatches them back when he catches sight of them through his tears. “Oh,” he gasps, pulling away. “I -- I’m sorry. I’ve probably gotten flour all over you, I --”

“Don’t worry about it,” she dismisses. She reaches around his waist and undoes the tie on his apron. He ducks his head to allow her to lift it up and over his neck, and it’s her wrists he focuses on as she removes his armor. “Come sit,” she says gently, leading him into the living room. She keeps busy for a few minutes, helping him get settled and searching for his embroidered handkerchief to give him time to calm down. She sinks down onto the couch next to him, giving him a few minutes to wipe off his face before she says anything else. “What happened? she asks quietly. “I thought things were going well, especially with Kurt now that you’ve finally told him about everything.”

“They were,” Blaine sighs, toying idly with the handkerchief. “At least, I _thought_ they were. I -- the reason I told him was because I finally felt comfortable being that close to him. I trusted him. I felt like sex would be easy if I could just _tell_ him about everything, you know? I finally got to a place where I felt ready to have sex with him, and I thought -- I thought that he felt the same, but --”

“He changed his mind?” Marley guesses.

“Sort of?” Blaine says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. It’s -- it’s not that he doesn’t want to, that much is obvious. But he -- I feel like he lied to me.”

“How?”

“He said it wasn’t a dealbreaker for him. None of it. Not anything I told him.”

“But it kind of is?” Marley guesses.

Blaine sighs and rubs at his temple with his fingers. “It’s enough to put the brakes on, at least.”

“Why?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Blaine says bitterly.

Marley raises an eyebrow at him. “You guys had a fight,” she surmises. “How bad?”

Blaine closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing to prevent himself from getting worked up again. “I had a panic attack and he kind of had to coerce me into taking my medication.”

“Ouch,” Marley hisses. “That bad?”

Blaine nods and leans against the back of the couch, running his thumb over the letters of his name embroidered into the cloth of the handkerchief. “Yeah, but -- honestly, that didn’t bother me that much. I mean, it did, but I was more upset by what caused all of that.”

“What exactly did you guys fight about?” Marley inquires. “Did he just refuse to have sex with you and leave it at that?”

Blaine shakes his head, folding and unfolding his handkerchief repeatedly to keep his hands busy. His loneliness and hurt is giving way to his frustration and anger and he doesn’t want to get too agitated. He needs to have control over _something_ right now in order to keep it together, and even though the handkerchief is just keeping his hands busy, it’s something real for him to hold onto. “No, it’s -- you don’t know what he’s been like since I told him. I thought things would be better -- not that they were really all that bad before, but that’s not the point. On the surface, they were, at least initially, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out that he was deliberately not having sex with me after I told him.”

“How do you know that?” Marley asks.

“He didn’t try very hard to hide it,” Blaine says dryly. “Any time things would get heated enough to seem like we might end up having sex, he’d stop and make up an excuse that didn’t make any sense.”

“Didn’t make sense?”

“He’d say things like it was getting late and he’d have work early the next day,” Blaine elaborates. “Except he wouldn’t have work the next day. It’d be one of his days off.”

“So you finally called him out on it,” Marley figures. “What’d he do?”

Blaine’s lips thin into a line as he remembers. “He didn’t even _try_ to deny it.”

“Did he tell you why?” Marley asks, curling up a little more comfortably on the couch.

“I think he’s a little freaked out by the whole virgin thing,” Blaine sighs. “He said I was fragile because of what I’d been through and that it was his job to protect me. He said --” Blaine laughs bitterly and crumples his handkerchief into a ball. “He said that I should be grateful.” In, out, and Blaine feels indignant and frustrated all over again. “And I just go so _angry_ , you know? I don’t want to be treated that way. I don’t want to be coddled or smothered. I don’t want someone else making my decisions for me. I don’t _need_ him to protect me.”

“I’m sure he only had your best interests at heart,” Marley says reasonably.

Blaine snaps his head up to look at her, annoyed. “That doesn’t give him the right to make decisions for me.”

“I don’t think that’s what he was doing,” Marley argues.

“That’s _exactly_ what he was doing --”

“No,” Marley insists, “I don’t think it was. He made a decision for himself and that decision happened to affect you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blaine snaps, irritated. “His decision prevented me from being able to make my own, and that isn’t okay. I thought that you, of all people, would understand how I’m feeling.”

“I do, but... I also understand where he’s coming from,” she admits.

“So what,” Blaine huffs incredulously, “you’re taking his side?”

“I’m not --”

“Because that’s sure what it sounds like --”

“If you could just --”

“You weren’t even there, you couldn’t possibly --”

“Fuck, Blaine, will you just listen to me for one second?” she yells. Blaine stares at her, jaw open and heart beating wildly. He’s never heard her swear before. He’s never even really see her lose her composure. But now, she seems just as agitated as he is, and for a moment, Blaine forgets how to breathe.

He’s losing his last ally, and he has to sit here and watch her voluntarily abandon him to take up camp behind enemy lines.

Marley takes a minute to try and compose herself, but she seems like she’s fraying and splitting at the ends, too. “Having sex with someone for the first time is kind of a big deal, Blaine,” she says plaintively. Blaine grips his knees tightly and works his jaw in an effort not to yell at her. Up until now, he’s valued her input and advice, even if she is five years younger than him. But this is different; this feels like a lecture or a guilt trip, and Blaine is tired of people telling him how he should feel. “You’re never quite sure when you should make eye contact or when is the right time to take your clothes off or if a certain touch is okay or where your hands go or --”

“You know, I’d finally stopped being nervous about this awhile ago,” Blaine says dryly. “This isn’t exactly helping.”

“The point I’m trying to make is that it’s intimate,” Marley sighs, rubbing at her temple. “It’s letting someone get close to you in a way no one else does. And you were worried about that.”

“But I’m _not_ anymore,” Blaine reminds her, exasperated.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean Kurt isn’t,” Marley points out. “He knows what you’ve been through, Blaine. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hurt you. He just wants to protect you, which means he obviously cares about you. His heart’s in the right place, Blaine.”

Blaine shifts uncomfortably on the couch. Marley’s words sting with truth, but Blaine can’t dwell on that. He has to stand up for himself, he has to make someone understand this from his point of view. “It’s not his job to protect me,” Blaine says again, gritting his teeth. “I don’t need him to protect me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Blaine, don’t you get that?” she says, a little hysterical herself, now. “Sometimes people don’t always know what’s best for them. Sometimes they need to be protected. You’re _lucky_ that he’s looking out for you, Blaine.”

Marley disappears behind enemy lines.

Blaine bites his lip and keeps his gaze trained on his lap, unable to look her in the eye. This isn’t supposed to happen. Marley is supposed to be on his side. She’s supposed to defend him, not his (well-meaning) boyfriend. She’s supposed to understand the mess inside of Blaine’s head better than anyone else.

He feels like he doesn’t recognize her at all.

In, out, and Blaine’s heart gets caught in his throat. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. I can’t believe you’re defending him, that you’re taking his side --”

“I’m not,” she interjects. “I’m just trying to help you understand where he might be coming from. You don’t seem to be taking his point of view into consideration.”

“Because no one seems to understand mine!” Blaine exclaims, tears springing into his eyes.

“And this isn’t just about you!” she counters, passionate but composed and he hates her for that right now, that she can keep it together better than he can right now, always. “It takes two people to have sex, Blaine. If you get hurt, it doesn’t just affect you. It affects Kurt, too.”

“I know that, okay?” he cries, tears spilling onto his face. “You and Kurt don’t think I do, but I _do_. It was all I could think about for awhile, Marley. I’ve thought about what it would be like to be that close to him, what it would be like to be touched by him, how he’d react under my touch. It’s not me, anymore, Marley -- it’s him. He’s the one clamming up. He’s the one not talking.”

“Well, then maybe you should focus on that instead of making assumptions about how Kurt is and what he wants,” Marley snaps. It’s almost the exact same thing Kurt had said to him last week and it’s still like a knife in the chest. He feels like he’s being attacked, like his feelings don’t matter, like he’s the one in the wrong and he’s the one who has to fix it. “I’m sorry,” she says abruptly, startling him. “I’m sorry, I just --” She pushes herself to her feet and grabs her bag from one of the end tables. “I’m sorry,” she says a third time. “I just can’t do this with you right now.”

He watches her start to walk away from him and realizes that she’s not behind enemy lines. He still has the opportunity to prevent her from leaving him alone in the field. “Can’t,” he says, voice low. “You and Kurt -- that’s all you’ll give me is that you can’t. Without any explanation.”

Marley whips around to face him, eyes flashing with something that looks like anger but probably isn’t. “Like you’ve never run away from something that’s scared you before?” she says coldly.

Her words hit him like venomous ice, so Blaine retaliates in kind and uses his words as weapons. “Like you haven’t either?” he throws back, just as cold. “How long have you been running away now?”

She starts to visibly shake, unraveling at the seams. “I’m getting _help_ ,” she says defensively.

“Still? After all this time? Weren’t you the one who said you were in group longer than you probably needed to be?”

“Change doesn’t happen overnight, Blaine.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he huffs, so beyond exasperated that he doesn’t know how much energy he has left to keep fighting.

“You should, but you don’t,” she says, almost accusingly. “Change doesn’t just affect you, Blaine. It affects the people around you, too, but you don’t see that.”

In, out, and Blaine rises to his feet, flexing his fingers and letting the handkerchief fall from his hand. “I am not going to let you make me feel guilty about standing up for myself.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty!” she exclaims. “I’m trying to make you understand that you aren’t understanding that Kurt just wants to take care of you.”

“I’m not a _child_!”

“Then stop acting like one!” she explodes. “You are being the most stubborn, spiteful, petulant person right now. You keep saying that you’re not fourteen anymore, Blaine, but you sure as hell act like you are.”

Blaine narrows his eyes at her. “Fourteen-year-old me ran away from his problems. It only ever brought pain. I am not fourteen anymore, Marley. I’m twenty-five. I am actively dealing with the issues I have to face. And I am finally, finally standing up for myself.”

“You know, for someone trying to reinvent the role perception plays in his life, yours is awfully skewed. You don’t think about how someone else might perceive things. And if you continue to be this stubborn about it, you’re going to make anyone who’s trying to get close to you run away.” Marley shifts her weight from one foot to the other and clutches the handle of her bag a little more tightly. “Let me know how standing up for yourself without someone to look out for you goes, Blaine. Let me know how it feels to be knocked down again.”

“I am an adult!” he shouts. “I don’t need someone to come to my rescue. I don’t need someone to protect me -- not you, or Kurt, or my mother or anyone else. None of you gets to dictate what I think or how I feel or how I react to something. I mean, _fuck_ , I’m a human being, Marley. I don’t have my choices dictated to me like you do.”

He regrets the words almost the second they’re out of his mouth, and he doesn’t have the time to take them back because Marley reacts within the space of a few seconds -- a sharp inhale, a set jaw, tears springing into her eyes -- before spinning on her heel and leaving.

Slowly, Blaine sinks back down on the couch and tries to remember how to breathe.

He hurt someone.

He hurt someone instead of helping them, and while he wouldn’t give up the new power he’s developed this year, this is his first real lesson in learning how to use it.

Words can be weapons.

But words can be so much more than that. Through all of the smoke and blurred lines and confusion, with all of the words still left unsaid, Blaine realizes that words can bring clarity. It’s all about how they’re used. And the thought of him hurting someone like the three men in the alley had done -- maybe worse -- terrifies him.

He doesn’t recognize this version of himself at all.

Blaine wants nothing more than to sink down into trenches, but he can’t. He hasn’t lost his allies, after all. They’re just as lost as he is, scattered and stranded, damaged and drifting. They need his help as much as he needs theirs in order to find their way back to each other. He needs all of the puzzle pieces to fit together to see the bigger picture, and they have to work as a cohesive unit in order to see it clearly.

This isn’t just about him. It never has been. It never will be.

He doesn’t want it to be.

He can’t redefine the borders of a battlefield that other people are trapped on just as much as he is without their assistance. He has to see things from their point of view. He has to perceive the world the way they do.

In, out, and Blaine reaches out a wounded hand to ask for help.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 23 June 2020_

The thing about Tracie is that she doesn’t fight. She advises and she strategizes, but she doesn’t get down in the trenches with him. Today, Blaine has requested an extra hour with her purely for her strategizing skills. He’s spent his first, regular hour dumping everything into her lap, and in the ten minute break she requests between the two hours, she sits quietly with her tea and squeezes a colorful stress ball.

Today, Tracie brought supplies.

Blaine tries to use the ten minutes to compose himself (and decidedly _not_ think about his first date with Kurt because Blaine will only burst into song before dissolving into tears and he is hanging by a thread as it is). He gets himself another mug of tea even though it’s warm outside, and he washes his face in the bathroom, feeling refreshed after spending half of his first therapeutic hour in tears. When he finally takes his seat on the couch and sets his mug on the coffee table, Tracie offers him a warm smile and tosses him the stress ball. “Shall we?”

Blaine nods slowly and looks down at the ball in his hand. “How come you’ve never brought this before?”

“Oh, I have,” she laughs. “You just haven’t seen it. I use it after every one of my sessions. Therapy isn’t just difficult for people like you, Blaine. I love what I do, but I need the opportunity to detox a little after each therapeutic hour. That,” she says, nodding toward the stress ball in his hand, “is my temporary form of stress relief throughout the day.”

“Why do I have it?” he asks.

“I’d like you to use it,” she explains. “I know being able to keep your hands busy helps you. But there’s something else I’d like you to do for me.”

“Which is?”

“I’d like you to go get your medication and bring it out here,” she requests.

Blaine squeezes the stress ball, immediately uncomfortable. “Why? I don’t like to take the extra dose unless I need it, Tracie, you know that. I haven’t needed it yet today.”

“I know,” she says kindly. “But I’d like to avoid a repeat of what happened with Kurt, if I can. Bringing the bottle out here will ensure that your medication is easily accessible. You can make the choice as to whether or not to take it, but at least it will be here if you end up needing it.”

In, out, squeeze. Blaine doesn’t want to even look at the bottle if he doesn’t have to, but he has put his trust in Tracie for well over a decade. He looks at the stress ball in his hand and realizes that by having him bring his medication into the room, she’s giving him more tools readily available should he need them in battle. He compromises by retrieving the bottle and setting it down on the coffee table behind his mug of tea so that he can’t see it.

“You know,” Tracie says dryly, “if you need to reach for the bottle quickly, you’re going to knock the mug over and spill tea all over the table.”

“Jesus,” Blaine huffs, reaching out and moving the bottle so that it’s sitting next to the mug instead of behind it. “You’re not going to go easy on me today, are you?”

“There’s a lot you want to work on,” she says, surveying him thoughtfully. “I believe a firm, direct approach is the best way to help you cover as much as you can today.”

Blaine shakes his head. “How do you do it? How do you stay objective with me after all these years?”

Tracie smiles. “It’s my job,” she says simply. “The longevity of the relationship between us does influence my taking a personal interest in you. I want to help you, Blaine, and fortunately, that’s what my job entails. I just have to figure out the best way to do that for you.” Blaine smiles softly at her before turning his attention back to the stress ball in his hand. He squeezes it to help him focus as he tries to figure out where to start and what to say and -- “Breathe,” Tracie says calmly.

Blaine reclines his head against the back of the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “I just -- I don’t know where to start,” he sighs. “I don’t know what to say or do or how to approach or fix things or --”

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “Why don’t we focus on one thing at a time? Let’s talk about Kurt first. Let’s deconstruct what he said during your argument.”

“Why?”

“Because if you want to be able to mend things between you, you have to have a clear understanding of what happened,” she explains. “People often remember things incorrectly or misconstrue them. In the middle of an argument, it’s easy to feel like you’re being attacked. It’s not uncommon for people to get defensive when that happens. Instead of listening to what the other person is saying, people will selective listen in order to formulate a defensive response. It means that people aren’t really listening, which means that the other person isn’t really being heard. It isn’t productive.”

Blaine lolls his head to the side to look at her. “Why do I have a feeling this is related to my making assumptions?”

“Because it kind of is,” she says good-naturedly. “From what you told me in the last hour, it sounds like you did a lot of that when you argued with the both of them. You asked for my help. I think giving you a more accurate analysis of what was said during the arguments is a good place to start.”

Blaine sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, but -- do you want me to go over everything again? Is that really a productive use of the extra hour?”

Tracie laughs. “I was thinking we could focus on certain aspects of it.”

“Like?” Blaine prompts.

“From what I can gather, your takeaway from your argument with Kurt was that he was trying to protect you and you didn’t think that was necessary.”

In, out, squeeze. “Yeah.”

“Okay, what did Kurt say, exactly, when you objected to the idea?” she asks.

In, out, squeeze, and Blaine closes his eyes as he tries to remember. “He said that he couldn’t change who he was. He said that it was his job to protect people.”

“Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” Tracie reasons.

“Well, yeah,” Blaine allows. “But I don’t want to be treated like his work. I don’t want him to treat me like I’m fragile. I --”

“Slow down,” Tracie instructs. “Breathe. Use the stress ball. I want to stop you for a minute.” In, out, squeeze. Blaine would be so much more wary of her stopping him here if he didn’t trust her so much. But that’s the point -- he _does_ trust her and he’s asked for her help. He has to work with her even if it hurts. Actually, the fact that it’s bound to hurt is a pretty good indicator that the work they’re is a pretty good indication that the work they’re going to do will help. “If the two weren’t related, I would try to refocus you back to one thing at a time,” Tracie continues. “Who said you were fragile -- you or him?”

“He did,” Blaine answers, but he pauses when he stops to think about it, _really_ think about it, he realizes that’s not entirely true. “I mean -- it’s more complicated than that. I told him I didn’t want him to treat me like I’m fragile and he told me that I was.”

“Okay, so you brought it up, but he’s the one who flat out said you were fragile,” she summarizes. “What was his response to you when you objected to that?”

Blaine swallows and squeezes the stress ball. “He said that wasn’t what he meant,” Blaine admits quietly.

“Okay,” she says amicably. “Did he explain what he _did_ mean?”

Blaine looks down at his lap and drops the ball, watching it settle in the dip between his legs. “No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I never really gave him a chance.”

“That may be true,” Tracie allows, “but you also said that you asked Kurt to stay and talk to you and he didn’t. He chose not to volunteer the information.”

“Okay, so we both screwed up,” Blaine huffs. “How is this helping?”

“I just want to make sure you don’t put unnecessary blame on yourself,” Tracie says gently. “I don’t want to counteract your progress.”

In, out. Tracie cares. Tracie is here to help.

Blaine picks the ball back up.

“I want to go back to Kurt’s explanation of why he wants to protect you,” Tracie says, refocusing them. “He said that he protects people for a living.”

Blaine changes tactics and starts to toss the stress ball between his hands. “And you think that’s related to him thinking I’m fragile?”

“I think it’s possible. But --” She sits up a little straighter in her armchair. “I want to be very clear about something. I don’t know Kurt. I don’t know him like you do. I only know what you tell me about him, so my guesses about him are just that -- guesses. Whatever we talk about together might help give you a little more insight, or it might help prepare you for when you talk to him. But I don’t want you to go into your next encounter with him expecting whatever he shares with you to match up with what I say.”

It’s Marley who Blaine thinks about, oddly enough. He remembers her telling him the story of how she lost her virginity, remembers how she’d said she learned that people aren’t replaceable. He couldn’t explain why, exactly, he’s thinking of that. He thinks maybe it has something to do with expectations. He can’t force unrealistic expectations on his boyfriend. He can’t control Kurt. He can’t expect Kurt to say or think or feel what he wants. Kurt is human, too, and Blaine can’t dictate Kurt’s choices. And all at once, Blaine realizes that each of them was right -- Blaine and Kurt and Marley.

It’s all about perception.

“Okay,” he says with a nod.

Tracie must be able to tell that Blaine’s being sincere because she relaxes in her chair, a smile settling onto her face. “From what you’ve told me about Kurt, I would hazard a guess that his career influences him more than you realize.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Blaine argues, pausing his tossing. “He hardly ever talks about it. He only ever mentions it when he talks about why he got into the field in the first place.”

“To help and protect people,” Tracie supplies knowingly. “But that’s also kind of my point, Blaine. You told him... a lot, and even if he’s handling it fairly well, there’s a lot more to it than that. If he was reluctant to explain his motivations behind wanting to protect you, if he doesn’t talk about his work, he’s obviously got some secrets of his own. He probably has his own limitations holding him back, Blaine.”

_This isn’t just about you._

“There’s nothing I can do to fix this, is there?” Blaine asks, feeling like he already knows the answer.

“Well,” Tracie sighs, “I think there are probably things you could both apologize for, but the thing I would point out is the lack of information. There isn’t a lot you actually know based on the argument you had with Kurt. He didn’t give you enough information.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” he asks. “Kurt and I aren’t exactly talking right now.”

“If it were me,” Tracie says, and god, she is being _so_ careful with her words, “I would let him know that you’re here whenever he’s up for talking. It’s what you did the last time you had a panic attack and I think it helped.”

“So basically, I just have to wait it out.”

“Give him time,” Tracie says gently. “He gave you time when you needed it. Now you can return the favor. Outside of that, I’m not sure there’s a whole lot I can do to help you with Kurt right now. If you’d like to revisit this after you talk to him, I’d be happy to help you help yourself. But I can’t fix this for you, Blaine.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I just hope I can.”

Tracie gives him a moment before moving on. “Shall we talk about Marley?”

Blaine winces and squeezes the stress ball. “I’m not sure that there’s anything to talk about,” he mutters. “I was kind of an asshole to her.”

Tracie heaves a great sigh. “We’ll come back to that in a minute, but you _are_ allowed to feel the way you do. We’ve discussed this dozens of times over the years.”

“No, I know that,” Blaine sighs. “I stand by standing up for myself. I just... feel lousy about attacking her the way I did.”

“What exactly was the last thing you said to her?” Tracie asks. “Word for word, if you can remember.”

Blaine shifts uncomfortably on the couch again and changes his interaction with the stress ball; he squeezes it in one hand before tossing it to the other, back and forth until he builds a rhythm. “I was -- I remember being frustrated with her because she didn’t understand that I don’t want to be protected, at least not the way Kurt was trying to do it. I don’t want to be protected at the cost of my -- my --” He snaps his fingers, struggling to find the right word.

“Agency?” Tracie offers.

“Yes,” Blaine breathes gratefully. “Exactly. I need to be able to make my own choices. And I told Marley that. I -- I told her that I was human, and that I didn’t have my choices dictated to me like she does.”

“That’s what you said? Word for word?”

“Pretty much word for word,” Blaine groans. He squeezes the stress ball one more time before flopping over onto his side and planting his face into a throw pillow. “Tell me I’m a terrible person,” he mumbles inaudibly.

“I think you’re a very good person who said a terrible thing you didn’t mean in the heat of an argument,” Tracie says kindly. “What you said -- that cause her to leave, right?”

Blaine scoots up a little, curling around the pillow, stress ball still clutched in his hand. “Yeah. She -- I’ve never seen her so upset before. She was so adamant while we were arguing. And when I said that -- the look on her face, Tracie. She’s normally so composed. I --” And he can’t look Tracie in the eye anymore, because even though he stands by standing up for himself, this is something he feels guilt over. It’s not something he’s proud of. It wasn’t his finest moment. “I hurt her, Tracie. And even if she was being sort of unreasonable, it didn’t make it okay for me to treat her that way.”

“The fact that you recognize all of that is a good thing, Blaine,” Tracie points out. “You said earlier that they both sort of criticized you for not really thinking about things from the other person’s perspective. This is change. And --”

“Change is good,” Blaine breathes, looking over at her. “Change is _good_ , god,” he laughs, rolling over onto his back. “It means that I’m getting better. Well -- I mean, I know that better is relative, and I know that it’s not about curing, or whatever, but --” He sighs and runs a hand over his face, flustered. “It’s encouraging to know that I can recognize my mistakes, that I can own up to them, that I can learn from them.” He sits back up and fiddles with the ball in his hands. “It makes me feel like not giving up.”

“As your therapist, that’s encouraging to hear,” she says warmly. “Especially considering how upset you were an hour ago.”

“Yeah, well, one thing at a time, right?” Blaine bites his lip, debating what to do with the ball before resuming tossing it between his hands. “I still don’t know what to do about Marley. I’ve called a few times, but she won’t take my calls.”

“I would look at it this way,” Tracie offers. “The situation with Marley isn’t actually that different from the situation with Kurt. Everyone made mistakes. Everyone has things they should probably apologize for. From what you’ve told me, Marley seems to be a very guarded person. And she has good reason for that, but it also creates the same problem you have with Kurt. You don’t have enough information to really understand where she was coming from.”

“So what would you suggest?” he asks. “Should I just give her time, too?”

“I think that inevitable, but I actually had another idea,” she ventures. “Do you remember when you and your mother weren’t speaking? And you both sent flowers back and forth?” Blaine nods. “I think you might benefit from using a similar approach here.”

“I should send Marley flowers?”

“Something like that,” Tracie affirms. “The point of the flowers with your mother is that they were gestures -- birthday wishes, apologies, invitations.”

“A gesture,” Blaine echoes faintly. “I think I can do that.”

Blaine returns the stress ball to Tracie with an easy toss, but she gives it right back.

“Keep it,” she says. “I have plenty more.”

Blaine smiles a little. “Thank you,” he says softly, rolling the ball in his hand. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Tracie’s eyes grow a little misty at that, but she merely shakes her head and waves a hand dismissively at him. “Honestly, Blaine,” she sighs dramatically, a hint of teasing in her voice, “I don’t know how you get dressed in the morning without me.”

Blaine throws the stress ball at her. “You just had to go and ruin a nice moment, didn’t you?”

Tracie chuckles a little, eyes trained on the ball in her hand. “May I make another observation?”

“Slash suggestion?” Blaine teases.

She takes the teasing for the permission it is. “Since November, any time anything... less than positive happens, you tend to wait a while before you bring it up in our sessions. And I get it -- sometimes you just need the time to process something on your own before talking to someone else about it.”

“If that’s a lesson I haven’t really learned by the end of this year, feel free to pelt me with stress balls, Tracie.”

“I’m holding out hope that it won’t be an issue by then anymore,” she says. “I’m hoping to encourage you to come to me with stuff like this sooner. You saw me last week and didn’t say anything about Kurt.”

“I know,” Blaine sighs. “I was still kind of trying to wrap my head around everything.”

“And that’s okay,” she reminds him. “But that’s also what I’m here for, to help you sort things out.”

“You do,” Blaine promises.

Tracie tosses the stress ball back to him, and when she smiles, Blaine is reminded that the is still full of beautiful things.

* * * * *

_Saturday, 27 June 2020_

Wounded and worn, Emma is Blaine’s healer in his time of need.

Blaine has taken Tracie’s advice in trying to mend his relationships with Kurt and Marley. Kurt, at least, had let Blaine know that Blaine’s offer had been heard. Marley, however, is still M.I.A., quiet and absent from group. It’s Emma who Blaine opens up to in his loneliness, Emma who identifies with him and Emma who patches him up. She invites him out for breakfast and a five dollar flashback film before their cooking class on the last Saturday of the month. The whole arrangement is a little startling. It’s Emma who approaches him, Emma who says she’ll pick him up at eight a.m., Emma who instructs him to wear something nice.

It’s Emma who protects him in battle, and Blaine finds that he minds less than he thought he would.

He wishes he could tell Kurt and Marley.

Emma shows up at Blaine’s doorstep at exactly eight o’clock wearing a bright and playful red sundress with white polka dots with shoes and purse to match. In her hands, she carries two brown paper bags and a neatly wrapped gift. “Good morning!” she says brightly, brushing past him into the kitchen.

“Morning,” he laughs, yawning a little. “This is a little earlier than I’m used to. What time is the movie?”

“Eleven,” she answers, setting her box and bags on the island. “But I’m taking you somewhere for breakfast -- well, we’re taking breakfast with us somewhere,” she clarifies, nodding toward the two brown paper bags she’s just set down on the island.

Blaine glances over at them and finally notices the words written in black marker in Emma’s neat script -- _Blaine_ on one, _Emma_ on the other -- and smiles. “What’s in the box, then?”

“This is for you,” she says, picking it up and holding it out. “I thought you could use a little pick-me-up.” Touched, Blaine reaches out to take the box from her, careful not to touch her skin. Wordlessly, he opens the box and peers inside.

It’s a reversible bowtie, apples on one side, yellow ducks on the other.

It suits him perfectly, and it makes Blaine so happy he wants to cry.

“I’ve sort of been keeping unofficial track of your collection,” Emma admits sheepishly. “I know you probably have some I haven’t seen yet, but I figured you didn’t have a reversible one like this. Well, I hoped you didn’t. You don’t, do you? Because I can --”

“I don’t,” he assures her, inhaling sharply in an effort to keep himself composed. He wishes, more than ever, that he could hug her right now. “It’s perfect, thank you. Let me, um -- here, follow me into the bedroom so I can put it on and look at it in the mirror.” She does follow him, even though she seems a little awkward standing in his bedroom while he does up the tie. “Apples or ducks?”

“Apples,” Emma volunteers. “The colors match your blazer.”

They’re quiet for a few moments before he ventures, “So where _are_ we going for breakfast?”

Blaine meets Emma’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror, and her answering smile lights up the whole room. “Tiffany’s.”

Blaine’s hands freeze mid-tie. “We’re seeing an Audrey Hepburn film today, aren’t we?”

Emma nods. “It’s why I asked you to dress up a little,” she says. “Only the best for Audrey.”

Blaine’s smile dims a little as he straightens his tie. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks quietly. “At the movie theater?”

Emma’s smile dims a little, too, but she still seems fairly upbeat. “I think I’ll be okay. I have a few things in my purse, but I don’t --” She pauses, eyes narrowing a little in concentration. “I don’t think it’ll be like when you first met me. If I clean the chair, it won’t be as extensive.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I trust you to know your own limitations.”

“I do, mostly,” she sighs. “I’m still adjusting to the new medication, but it’s -- it’s helped a _lot_. The world feels a little more... manageable.”

“I’m glad,” Blaine says warmly. His eyes drift from hers in the mirror to the camera on the nightstand. Inspiration strikes, then, seeing Emma in the mirror, and he turns to face her, fingers twitching. “Do you mind if I bring my camera with me?”

Emma blinks a little, clearly surprised. “Um, no, I guess not,” she says. “Why?”

“You just -- you look so nice today,” Blaine compliments, smiling a little awkwardly. “I wanted to get a shot of you in front of Tiffany’s for my scrapbook.”

Emma smiles, clearly amused. “And how exactly do I help change your perception?” she asks, teasing.

“You are... _proof_ that change is good,” Emma,” he answers softly. “That’s -- it’s encouraging, that’s all.”

Emma’s smile turns a little sad, and she closes the distance between them, fingers reaching up to brush his bowtie. “Come with me for a minute,” she says. Curious and a little nervous, Blaine follows her into the living room. She stops between the armchair and the couch and sets her purse down atop the armchair as she turns to face him. “Put your hand on my waist,” she instructs.

Blaine arches his eyebrows in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Your hand,” she laughs. “Put it on my waist.”

Blaine can’t help but just stare at her for a minute. The request is jarring, at best. It strikes him as odd that she’s inviting such an intimate touch -- that she’s inviting touch at all, actually. He’s only ever touched her once, the night he’d bandaged her hands, and he’d had gloves on then. This isn’t that different, his skin against the fabric of her dress, but it’s still closer than he would expect her to be comfortable with. But Emma knows her limitations better than Blaine does, so he defers to her and hesitantly reaches out a hand. He’s gentle with his touch, though, just in case.

“I’m not going to break, Blaine,” Emma laughs.

Blaine lifts his eyes to meet hers and feels his heart skip a beat.

Emma is healing.

And if Blaine doesn’t want to be treated like he’s fragile, he can’t treat Emma like she is, either.

Blaine grips Emma’s waist a little tighter and is rewarded with a smile. “Now,” she says briskly, straightening up a little and raising her arm, “take my hand.”

Again, Blaine pauses. He can’t _help_ it. Emma knows her limitations, but this is entirely different. This is a first for Blaine, too, and he’s afraid of doing the wrong thing. He’s -- he’s afraid of hurting her, if he’s being honest, and after his fight with Marley, he’s trying to be a little more careful. He’d gotten comfortable because things had been going so well. The current strain on his relationships with Kurt and Marley has been a harsh reminder that even if people keep coming back, Blaine can’t take them for granted. The thing is, he had sought Emma out, and she had been the one who wanted him to stay. And she’s here, now, because she wants to make him feel better. She wants to help him.

Emma is the only friend he’s got right now.

In, out, and Blaine takes Emma’s hand.

The skin on skin contact sends sparks up Blaine’s arm, and Emma’s answering squeeze restarts the current.

In, out, and Blaine can feel himself beginning to wake up.

Emma’s free hand slides up to rest on Blaine’s shoulder, bringing them a little closer. “Do you know how to dance?”

“It’s been awhile,” Blaine laughs, “but I think I can manage.”

Emma takes his words at face value and moves closer, leaning in and lifting her head a little to press as much of her cheek as she can against his. Voice soft, Emma counts them off, and together, they start to slow dance in the small empty space in the living room. Emma doesn’t talk for awhile, but she does hum, something familiar and calming. It takes Blaine a few minutes to realize that it’s “Moon River,” and once he recognizes it, he starts to hum along with her, filling the room with music.

Emma leaves the humming to Blaine after they’ve gone through the song once. When she starts to speak, Blaine lowers his voice so she doesn’t feel like she has to be loud to be heard. “Do you want to know why I finally decided to get help?” she asks. “I felt like I couldn’t help my kids anymore if I couldn’t help myself.”

Blaine stops humming and inhales sharply, trying to pull back a little. “Emma --”

“Don’t,” Emma says, squeezing his hand. The sparks go right to Blaine’s heart this time, and he allows Emma to pull him close again. “Please, let me get this out.” Again and again and again he hears it, sometimes out of his own mouth. In, out, and Blaine keeps quiet. “It was really hard for me, at first, not to look at you like one of my kids,” she admits.

Blaine swallows and adjusts his grip on her waist. “I could tell.”

“I know that probably bothered you,” she says. “It’s just -- you never really got to... come of age when you were a teenager. I guess I feel like I’ve been watching you grow a little. But I remind myself that you’re an adult and --” Emma grows quiet, but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t stop dancing, either; instead, he feels her cheek nuzzle against his own in adjustment. “I feel like I’ve learned more from you than you’ve learned from me.”

“Really?” Blaine laughs wetly.

“Really,” Emma affirms. Blaine can feel her smile against his cheek. “You taught me that it’s okay if I stumble or fall. You taught me that it doesn’t mean I have to give up.”

“Maybe I should branch out and become a teacher,” he jokes.

Emma isn’t deterred. “I know things are hard for you right now,” she says quietly. “I just... don’t want you to forget how you’ve come. Your progress is encouraging to me, Blaine.”

In, out. It’s too early to burst into tears. “You know how, in the film, Holly talks about how people don’t belong to each other?” Emma nods against his cheek. “I think she was right. I have to be able to stand on my own two feet. I have to be able to get up after I fall.” Finally, Blaine brings them to a stop and pulls back to look at her. “I’m not giving up, Emma.”

The smile she gives him is both warm and friendly, and still, she doesn’t let go of his hand. “I don’t disagree, but I think Paul was right, too.”

Blaine grins. “How so?”

“You work with teenagers enough, you start to realize just how much influence people have over each other,” Emma laughs. “People _do_ belong to each other, but it’s not a bad thing. It means there’s always someone there to catch you when you fall.”

With Emma’s hand clasped tightly with his own, Blaine is not afraid of falling.

“Besides,” Emma points out, refocusing Blaine’s attention, “we don’t belong to just one person. We all belong to each other, in some way or another.”

Blaine thinks of the connection he has with Emma, how it varies from the connections he has with Kurt and Marley and Tracie and his parents and even Cooper. There are so many pieces that make him up, and looking at things from Emma’s point of view makes sense. His heart doesn’t just belong to one person. Each of the people he belongs to have given him a piece of themselves back. “I think you’re right.”

Beaming, Emma adjusts their hands so that they’re clasped between them as they stand side by side. “Come on,” she beckons, reaching for purse. “Let’s have breakfast. I’m starving.”

Two drifters joined by the hand, Emma leads, and Blaine follows.

* * * * *


	10. July

** July **

_Thursday, 9 July 2020_

The sun scorches the battlefield as the summer wears on, and Kurt finally thaws.

He breaks his radio silence with a simple text message -- a date and a time and an address followed by a _meet me?_

Blaine is more than happy to meet Kurt halfway.

It’s starting to get a little unbearably hot outside, so Blaine tries to dress more for comfort than style. He indulges himself in a bowtie, though, the gray one with puzzle pieces, and leaves his apartment a little early so that he’s not late. He knows mostly how to get to the address Kurt had sent him, but Blaine’s not entirely sure where exactly they’re meeting up today. At the sidewalk outside of his building, Blaine starts to turn left, but he pauses for a moment before turning around and heading back in the other direction. The selection at the flower bodega on the corner has improved vastly since January, and the bright explosion and array of colors reminds him of Emma. He takes his time in trying to select the right kind; it occurs to him, now, that he doesn’t actually know what Kurt’s favorite flower is, which seems like an oversight on Blaine’s part. Then again, Kurt has never volunteered the information, so Blaine doesn’t feel completely terrible about it. He gravitates toward the lilies, at first, knowing their penchant for being used as apology flowers, but there’s a cluster of tall stemmed flowers off to the side that he has rarely seen in the last six months that catches his attention. They’re easily the most fragrant of the selection, aromatic and lovely and pristine. And he can’t explain _why_ , really, he feels drawn to them. His gut tells him that these are the right choice for meeting Kurt today, and with Tracie’s words echoing in his ears -- _trust yourself and your instincts_ , Blaine opts for buying a small arrangement of tuberose.

Back in the other direction he goes, down several blocks with the flowers in his hand. He pays attention to the addresses as he navigates his way through the city, not wanting to pass their arranged meeting place. He starts when he passes a building and is met with open land. The closest building is on the next block, and Blaine hasn’t passed the address he’s been looking for yet. Actually, based on the addresses he’s passed so far, this is pretty much the spot they’re supposed to meet. But it doesn’t make any sense, so Blaine backtracks a little to make sure he didn’t misread something. Again, he’s met with the same result, and he’s just about to move on to the next block when he sees the gate in front of the plot of land. He figures it’s better to be safe than sorry and moves toward it, noticing a plaque on a brick pillar next to the gate. _Here_ is the address he’s been looking for. Confused and a little curious, Blaine’s eyes drift up to the letters decorating the archway over the gate.

It’s a cemetery.

Gut twisting into knots, Blaine bites his lip and glances around. Part of him wonders if Kurt had gotten the address wrong. All Blaine has to do is text and ask, but on the off chance that the address is correct and Kurt is in there, Blaine doesn’t want to seem insensitive. Texting his boyfriend _you wanted me to meet you at a cemetery?_ doesn’t exactly seem like the best thing to say when they’re trying to mend things. Blaine glances at his watch and glances around one more time before turning back to the gate with a sigh. This is the time that Kurt had specified, but he’s nowhere in sight. Blaine does have one more option before trying to get in touch with Kurt, but it doesn’t exactly make him comfortable.

In, out, and Blaine pushes the gate open.

In and to the left, down rows and plots and headstones. Blaine heads up a slight hill and glances around, hoping the height gives him a good vantage point to try and find Kurt. Still nothing, though, so Blaine heaves a disappointed sigh and heads toward the center of the cemetery. He decides to peruse the other half of the cemetery briefly before heading back down the hill to the gate, and there, halfway down the hill on the far side, is where Blaine finally spots him.

Blaine feels his heart stop beating and tries not to sink into the ground.

In, out. He has a feeling he’s about to get a whole lot of information he didn’t have before.

Tracie was right.

In, out, and Blaine swallows thickly before squaring his shoulders and marching off to the plot where Kurt is. Blaine’s not entirely sure that Kurt sees him coming, actually, because he doesn’t look up or speak or acknowledge Blaine as he grows closer. Blaine clutches the stems of the flowers in his hand tightly as he moves to stand next to Kurt. His moves his gaze in accordance with Kurt’s to the headstone wedged in the ground and reads the names inscribed in stone.

_Burt and Elizabeth Hummel_

Blaine doesn’t know what to say, and for once, he feels glad that his throat feels too thick to speak. He doesn’t have the words. The proximity of his presence finally seems to get through to Kurt, though, and it’s Kurt who has the words, in the end.

“I grew up around the force,” Kurt says, still not looking over at Blaine. “My dad was a member of the NYPD. They were like a second family to me. And -- I’d thought about it, as a kid,” Kurt admits, seemingly deviating from what sounds like a fairly practiced speech. “I thought about it as a career option, you know? I would’ve loved to have done what my dad did. But I was a kid. I changed my mind like a million times. There was a point when I wanted to be a firefighter, and then an actor, and then a cook. And my dad -- I think there was a part of him that really wanted me to follow in his footsteps. But he was so supportive -- both of my parents were. They would’ve been okay with whatever I ended up deciding.”

Kurt pauses for a minute, eyes slipping shut, and his sharp intake of breath is so quiet that Blaine almost doesn’t hear it. “And then, when I was eight, my mom died.” And Kurt’s breath is Blaine’s own, piercing and caught in his chest and painful. “She was a victim of gun violence. Got caught in the crossfire. She was just... in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Kurt exhales, his shoulders sagging a little, and it looks like it costs him a great effort to open his eyes again. “My dad and I took it really hard. But it -- it brought us closer. And I knew, then, that I wanted to do what he did. I wanted -- there was nothing I could’ve done for her, but I thought that maybe I could spare someone else the pain we went through.”

There’s so much that Blaine feels like he should say, things Blaine’s not even sure how to phrase or bring up. But his gut tells him to stay quiet, to let Kurt get this out, so Blaine trusts his instincts and listens. “For a long time, it was just the two of us. After high school, I went to study and get my bachelor’s in criminology. I was going to join the academy when I was done.” In, out, and Blaine can see Kurt’s jaw working, clearly struggling with something. “There’s an inherent risk to what we do, obviously. But I never -- I never really thought about it when it came to my dad, you know? He’d been there for me for so long that I never thought about him as vulnerable. He was the consummate survivor. He was invincible.”

In, out, and Blaine can see the tears spring into Kurt’s eyes. “But he wasn’t,” Kurt says thickly. “He wasn’t, and I lost him to violent crime, too, when I was nineteen. And everyone on the force -- they tried really hard to be there for me, but I kept them all at arm’s length. I took my dad’s death so _hard_ , but I’d lost the two people I was closest to in the world. I felt like if I let anyone get close again, that they’d just end up getting hurt, too. So I tried to stay focused. I finished school and joined the academy and did the job I’d told myself would make a difference when I was eight.”

And just like that, so much more makes sense to Blaine now. Tracie had been right -- Kurt’s career and everything surrounding it has influenced him so much. Kurt keeps people at arm’s length, even the people who are supposed to be his family, but he’d latched onto Blaine and kept him close. Blaine realizes now that Kurt probably finds the same sense of family in Blaine that Blaine finds in him. And with what Kurt’s been through, it makes sense that he’d expect Blaine to be grateful that Kurt was looking out for him. It makes sense that Kurt had stressed not wanting to hurt Blaine any more than Blaine had already been hurt, because Kurt doesn’t want anyone to suffer. And it makes sense -- _god_ , it makes so much sense, now that Kurt had called him fragile. Kurt doesn’t see Blaine as fragile; he sees _people_ as fragile, and Blaine just happens to be included in that.

_That’s what you don’t understand_ , Kurt had said when Blaine had said he always got up. _Not everyone does_.

Blaine feels like he’s been electrocuted awake.

And finally, with so much off of his chest, Kurt seems to be able to finally, really acknowledge Blaine beyond just words. “Blaine,” Kurt says thickly, turning a little to face Blaine, “I --” The words die in his throat when he looks over at Blaine, eyes wide and wet. “You brought flowers,” he chokes out.

Blaine glances at the arrangement of tuberose in his hand before looking back over at Kurt with a sheepish smile. “Um, yeah,” he says awkwardly. “I didn’t realize how appropriate they’d be.”

But Kurt seems caught up in more than just the gesture, eyes closed, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t -- I didn’t even _think_ about bringing any. I’ve been so stressed out lately, I --”

“Hey,” Blaine says gently, fingertips brushing against Kurt’s arm, “it’s okay. Here, let me --” Wordlessly, he turns back to face the headstone, maneuvering carefully before kneeling on the ground in front of it. He takes time and tries laying the flowers in a variety of positions before finally deciding on propping them up against the headstone. This isn’t exactly the person -- well, people -- that Blaine had planned on giving the flowers to, but they’re still Hummels. He reaches out a tentative hand, wanting to trace over the letters, but he thinks better of it and pulls away. He pushes himself to his feet and brushes off his pants before turning back around to face Kurt.

Kurt’s arms are around him instantly, warm and tight and clinging and perfect, god, and Blaine finally feels like he can breathe again. Kurt is crying now, tears dripping onto Blaine’s neck and shirt. Blaine reaches up to wrap his arms around Kurt in kind, and it’s now that it occurs to Blaine that Kurt finds comfort in being held. “You have no _idea_ how much I love you,” Kurt breathes into his skin.

Kurt loves him.

Kurt _loves_ him, which means --

_Oh_.

Kurt is afraid of losing him.

God, _so_ much more makes sense now.

Blaine tries to cling a little tighter, but Kurt pulls back enough to look at him. His eyes are wet and red and he _still_ takes Blaine’s breath away. “I, um -- “ Kurt sniffs and rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm, clearly trying to collect himself. “There’s so much I still want to talk to you about, but --” His eyes dart over to the headstone now supporting the tuberose. “Not here. Can we --” He gestures toward the gate at the bottom of the hill, eyes trained on the ground.

Blaine takes Kurt’s hand in his, and together, they walk past rows upon rows of casualties.

Outside of the gate on the sidewalk, Blaine hesitates, glancing around. “It’s a bit of a walk to my apartment from here,” he says. “I can call a cab, if you want --”

“I don’t live far from here,” Kurt cuts in quietly. “Can we just go to my place?”

“Sure,” Blaine agrees amicably.

They hold hands all the way to Kurt’s place, and it takes one step inside of the front door for Blaine to realize that it’s much nicer than his own. It’s really more of a house in the middle of the city, big and spacious. It takes him another couple of minutes -- the time it takes for his shoes to come off and the pair of them to settle down in the couch in the living room -- for Blaine to realize that this must have been Kurt’s parents’ house, the house that Kurt grew up in. And it’s a wonderful place for a family, but now, with the two of them sitting here alone in the quiet, it makes sense to Blaine why Kurt has spent so much time at Blaine’s apartment. The space is empty without people to fill it, and without the people, it must be lonely. Blaine’s apartment is half the size of Kurt’s place, and he’s felt lonely in the space that belongs to him.

“I want to apologize,” Kurt says, clearly wanting to keep talking despite how upset he is. “I handled the whole situation so badly. You asked me to leave and I didn’t --”

“You did the right thing,” Blaine interjects, no matter how much pain Kurt’s refusal had caused at the time. “I shouldn’t have been left alone.”

“Still,” Kurt says, shaking his head and barreling on, “I was really terrible to you. I lost my temper because you weren’t accepting the help you needed, and I was going to panic if I couldn’t help you because I cared, and I realized that I loved you and it really freaked me out, but that doesn’t excuse me basically forcing you into taking your medication.” In, out, and Kurt lifts his eyes to meet Blaine’s. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “You were right -- I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t taking your feelings into account.”

Blaine runs his thumb along the back of Kurt’s hand. “Thank you,” he says quietly, “for apologizing. I felt like I wasn’t being heard, but -- to be fair, Kurt, I wasn’t listening to you, either. I have this problem where I make assumptions and jump to conclusions without actually having enough information --”

“Information you didn’t have because I wouldn’t give it to you,” Kurt counters. “It’s really not your --”

Blaine leans in and kisses him quiet, heart skipping a beat at the contact. “I’m trying to say that I’m sorry, too,” Blaine murmurs against his mouth. “We can sit here exchanging apologies all day, but it’s only going to do so much to help us fix this.”

Kurt’s mouth twitches into a smile, and Blaine feels victorious.

“I, um --” Kurt clears his throat and pulls back a little, a blushing blooming onto his cheeks. “My feelings for you haven’t changed,” he says softly. “I think that much is obvious.”

“Neither have mine,” Blaine murmurs, scooting a little closer so that their knees knock against each other.

Kurt fidgets, shifting a little uncomfortably on the couch. He looks like he simultaneously wants to put some space between them and move closer. “I -- I think... I’ve finally gotten to a place where I’m comfortable moving forward,” he says. “Are you still comfortable with --”

“I am if you are,” Blaine assures him. “I still trust you.”

Kurt smiles warmly at him. “Thank you,” he enthuses, “for giving me the time I needed.”

“You gave me time when I needed it,” Blaine reminds him. “It was only fair that I returned the favor.”

There’s such affection in Kurt’s eyes, and Blaine is reminded, again, that Kurt loves him. “I, um, I’m not really in the mood to do anything tonight,” Kurt laughs awkwardly.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Blaine assures him.

“I don’t want to try to plan it, either,” Kurt explains. “I’m not sure if that makes things better or worse for you.”

“That’s fine,” Blaine says, relaxing a little. “I think the anticipation of knowing exactly when it’s coming might make me a little more anxious about it. I’d prefer to try being spontaneous.”

“Okay, but I -- there are still things I want to talk about beforehand,” Kurt says firmly. “There are things I think are really important for us to discuss.”

“Such as?” Blaine prompts.

“Limitations,” Kurt answers immediately. “There are certain things that are just not going to be okay for one or both of us, and we should probably get those out in the open now instead of waiting until the come up and trying to struggle through them.”

“Okay,” Blaine says slowly. “I don’t -- I’m not sure I’ll know what mine would be, specifically, until we start trying stuff? I’m not trying to make things difficult, I just have never done anything before, so I don’t think I can know.”

“Fair enough,” Kurt says amicably. “I’ll do my best to accommodate you, but I’m probably still going to be a little reserved in the beginning. Just in case.”

“Kurt,” Blaine sighs, “you don’t have to treat me like --”

“Not like you’re fragile,” Kurt cuts in quickly. “Not even like you’re a virgin, necessarily. It’s just -- any time you have sex with someone new for the first time, it’s kind of a learning experience. Everything is an experiment. You’re learning each other’s bodies and likes and dislikes, and you don’t figure everything out the first time. That’s all I meant by it.”

Blaine smiles warmly at him. “And you? Do you have limitations?”

“A few,” Kurt affirms. “Nothing too crazy -- I’m fairly open to trying new things. But I don’t like being hit. You can grope me and scratch me and bite me all you want, you can even smack my ass, but I don’t like being thrown around. I don’t like unnecessary roughness.” And oh, the images that conjures up in Blaine’s mind -- grabbing Kurt’s ass again and scratching his nails along Kurt’s back and biting Kurt’s shoulder, _god_. “Does that make sense? Blaine? Are you listening?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Blaine breathes, hand twitching in Kurt’s. “I’m listening, I’m just... also trying not to let the visual in my head get too vivid or else I won’t be able to concentrate.”

“If I have to keep my hands off of you tonight, you have to stay focused,” Kurt says dryly.

“I am,” Blaine insists. “Limitations -- got it. What else?”

Kurt bites his lip for a minute before continuing. “I want to talk about using a safeword.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at him. “ _No_ or _stop_ isn’t enough?”

“It is,” Kurt assures him, “but it’s still good to have one, just in case. I’ve been with guys who don’t take the word _no_ seriously because it’s said in the heat of the moment. I was really grateful that we’d established a safeword.”

“Okay,” Blaine agrees. “Did you have something specific in mind? I’m not sure what the rules or guidelines are for something like this.”

“Everyone is different,” Kurt explains. “Most of the time, people pick something that’s either specific to the relationship or an outrageous word that they rarely use. But there are some easier alternatives, if you don’t want to try and come up with something like those.”

“Like what?”

“Like traffic signals,” Kurt elaborates. “Green obviously means go. It means that things are still okay. Yellow means to slow down or ease up a bit.”

“And red means stop,” Blaine concludes. “I like that. It’s simple and easy to remember.”

“It allows for a little flexibility, too,” Kurt points out. “It’ll be your first time and you might not be sure if you’re okay with something or not, so yellow gives you the option to keep exploring while making it less overwhelming.”

“Sounds perfect,” Blaine says softly. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

Kurt drops his gaze to his lap and shifts uncomfortably on the couch, squeezing Blaine’s hand tightly. “I feel like it’s important for you to remember that I have a sexual history outside of you.”

“Technically, you don’t have a sexual history with me yet,” Blaine quips.

There’s a flicker of a smile on Kurt’s lips, but it’s gone almost as soon as it comes. He lifts his eyes to meet Blaine’s again and takes Blaine’s other hand in his own. “I’ve had sex with other men before,” he says clearly. “I’m normally fairly careful, but I have had unprotected sex before. I always made sure to get myself tested regularly, whether or not I was safe. The last time I had sex was well over a year ago, and I’ve been tested since. I’m clean, but I want -- I wanted to ask a favor of you.”

“Okay,” Blaine says slowly, brow wrinkling in confusion. “Do you still want to use condoms? Because it doesn’t matter to me, Kurt, at least not in the beginning. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Kurt shakes his head. “This is actually about your comfort more than mine -- at least, that’s how I see it. I want to be able to get tested again before we move further, just as a precaution.”

“Okay, and you want me to get tested with you for solidarity or something?” Blaine guesses.

Another shake of the head, but there’s an amused smile playing at Kurt’s lips now. “You can, if you want to, but I wanted to ask you to come with me. I wanted you to be able to see me getting tested and to look at the results yourself when they come in. I want --” Head bowed again, hands squeezing tight, and Kurt’s voice goes quiet. “I know you trust me. I just -- I want you to have peace of mind going into this.”

Blaine’s heart floods with affection for him. He pries one of his hands loose and hooks his fingers under Kurt’s chin, forcing Kurt to look at him. “I _love_ the way you take care of me,” he says softly. “And I’m hoping you’ll let me start doing the same for you.”

“You already do.”  
It’s Blaine’s turn to smile, now, and he lets go of Kurt’s chin in favor of taking Kurt’s hand again. “If it will give you peace of mind to give me peace of mind, I’m all for it.”

“It will,” Kurt insists. “Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“I think that’s all for now,” Kurt sighs, relaxing a little.

Blaine leans in and presses a warm kiss to Kurt’s lips. “Thank you,” he says, “for telling me. I know it probably wasn’t easy.”

“It wasn’t,” Kurt admits, curling in close so that Blaine can wrap his arms around him, “but I trust you.”

Blaine tucks his chin over Kurt’s shoulder, content to sit in the quiet for a few minutes. He’d felt like he was falling apart, before, connections breaking between the pieces. He’d hated that Kurt had the power to influence that, but here, now, with Kurt in his arms, Blaine realizes that he holds the same kind of power, too. And looking at the side table over Kurt’s shoulder, Blaine sees an opportunity to strengthen the bond between them. “Is that him?” he asks. “Your dad?”

Kurt pulls away and glances over his shoulder at the framed photograph Blaine has indicated. His smile is a little sad as he reaches for it and brings it closer. “Yeah.”

“How old were you there?”

“Sixteen,” Kurt sighs. “I was still kind of baby-faced.”

“Hey,” Blaine says gently, nosing at Kurt’s cheek to get Kurt to look over at him. “Fourteen or fifteen-year-old me would’ve been all over you.”

Kurt rolls his eyes but grins anyway, giving Blaine a brief kiss before turning his attention back to the photograph. “I know we probably don’t look anything alike, but --”

“No, you do,” Blaine offers, surveying the photograph thoughtfully.

“Really?” Kurt laughs dryly.

“Well, there’s an obvious family resemblance, but I can definitely see it in the faces when you guys smile.” He glances over at Kurt, who looks a little taken aback. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kurt dismisses, shaking his head. “It’s just -- no one’s ever said that to me before.”

“What,” Blaine laughs, “that you have your father’s smile?”

“Yeah, I -- I always got that I had my mother’s eyes, that I looked a little more like her than I did him, but never that I got his smile.”

“Is that... a bad thing?” Blaine asks tentatively.

“No,” Kurt assures him quietly. “Not at all. It’s just...” He scoots in a little closer, lips a few inches from Blaine’s, fingertips brushing against Blaine’s bowtie. “You’re making it very hard to keep my hands off of you today,” he breathes.

Blaine inhales sharply, suddenly breathing very heavily. It’s so _easy_ to get lost in Kurt and he _can’t_ , not today. He has to keep them focused. “Are, um --” He clears his throat in an effort to have control over something. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Kurt answers, high and breathless and closer, so much closer.

Blaine can’t do anything but stare at his lips. “Do you... have anything in the kitchen I can work with?” Blaine gasps, jolting a little when Kurt’s lips brush against his own.

“Mmhm,” Kurt hums against his mouth, moving his lips to the corner of Blaine’s mouth. “There’s also a drawer of takeout menus if you don’t feel like cooking.”

And Kurt doesn’t pull away, just leans in closer until he’s practically in Blaine’s lap. His lips keep catching and brushing against Blaine’s with the briefest and lightest of touches, kisses that aren’t really kisses at all, breath mingled between them. Blaine’s heartbeat is erratic and Kurt’s hand is on his thigh and then Kurt’s eyes slip shut as he angles his head and --

“Limitations,” Blaine gasps, pulling away and standing abruptly. “You said no sex today. Can we just… keep things at yellow, at least for the rest of today?”

“I know, I know, okay,” Kurt groans, resting his forehead against the back of the couch.

“I’m going to go make lunch,” Blaine announces, knowing that putting a little space between them will help them cool off. Kurt grabs hold of Blaine’s hand as Blaine passes him on his way into the kitchen, though, giving Blaine enough pause to wait. And _god_ , Blaine had forgotten how good this feels, the sparking current between them. He’d forgotten how good it feels to feel safe. Kurt lifts his head up to look at Blaine for a moment, and Blaine can see it there, in Kurt’s eyes, the words that he wants to let slip again -- _I love you_. But the thing is, Blaine doesn’t need to hear it. He knows, and he thinks that Kurt knows that he knows. And he thinks -- well, he hopes that Kurt at least suspects that Blaine feels the same. There will be a time and a place for Blaine to say it back. For now, they are mending, and that is more than enough. “Fine,” Blaine sighs dramatically, trying to ease the tension. “I’ll make a cheesecake for dessert.” Kurt grins and drops Blaine’s hand, hiding his face against the couch again.

God, how that smile takes Blaine’s breath away.

Into the kitchen to orient himself to his new surroundings and supplies, and Blaine’s thoughts drift to his desk drawer at home. There are two unfinished pieces sitting in that drawer: one, he can’t finish without Marley; the other, he’d started before he’d even met her. It’s the latter he thinks of as he putters around Kurt’s kitchen, keys and chords and melodies starting to fill him up again. He flexes his fingers as he works, playing a phantom piano, and hears the silent song ringing in his ears.

With music in his fingers and contentment in his heart, Blaine makes himself at home inside of walls that are not his own.

* * * * *

_Friday, 17 July 2020_

Blaine’s perception has always been a little skewed. The world has always looked different from the inside of his apartment. The peephole at his front door has only ever shown him a distorted piece of reality. The window in his dining room makes him feel more boxed in than anything, only allowing him to look a short distance in every direction but forward. The balcony off of his living room has felt less like a cage than it probably should. In a lot of ways, the balcony provided Blaine with the opportunity to venture into the outside world without actually being in it. When his parents had helped him start looking for a place of his own, Blaine had been adamant about not wanting an apartment with a fire escape. A fire escape connected him to the rest of the world and gave people the opportunity to enter his. And at the time, Blaine couldn’t even handle the idea of that.

Now, Blaine’s perception may still be a little skewed, but he at least has the opportunity to go outside and see things for what they really are himself. He can walk outside of his apartment building and actually see the faces of the people walking by. He can put himself in the thick of the bustle of the city and compare himself to the tall buildings. He can see the world for what it is -- a place with people who may do good or bad things. More often than not, they do both, and with each new page of his scrapbook that gets filled, Blaine realizes that his perception is made up of both light and dark.

And the thing is, just because he can put himself into positions that allow him to perceive the world more accurately doesn’t mean that’s what actually happens. He’d forgotten, in all his years inside, how much of an illusion the city could be. And just because he can see the people’s faces now doesn’t mean those faces are genuine. He’s learning that it’s easy to be too close to something, too, so close that it prevents him from seeing the bigger picture. At the same time, though, being able to see all of the components up close make him appreciate the bigger picture a lot more.

Now, Blaine can look at his dining room window and appreciate the beauty of the city from his refuge. Now, Blaine can venture out onto his balcony and feel like he’s a part of something. Now, he can look out his peephole and see someone dear to him waiting for him to let them in.

Today, it’s Marley he sees on the other side of his front door.

Blaine can’t open the door fast enough.

“Hi,” he greets breathlessly, beyond happy that his gesture has worked.

“Hi,” she returns quietly. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, please,” Blaine invites, stepping aside to let her in. He leads her into the living room, and it’s not until they’re settling down onto the couch that Blaine notices the large box she’s brought with her. It’s gift-wrapped, so he has no idea what it is, but seeing it makes him feel a little nervous. She sets the box and her purse on the floor before she really allows herself to look at him.

She looks tired.

“Thank you for the peonies,” she says warmly. “How’d you know they were my favorite?”

Blaine offers her an embarrassed smile. “I... may have done a little digging. You mentioned it in _Teen Magazine_ like three years ago.” He rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry, I know that probably sounds a little creepy.”

“Not creepy,” Marley assures him. “You had to go digging for it. I’m sure there are people who have it memorized. And it is technically public knowledge.”

“I’m glad you liked them, anyway,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “Listen, Marley, I -- I wanted to apologize. I needed someone to understand things from my point of view, and I felt like I was being ganged up on, but it doesn’t excuse what I did. It didn’t give me the right to attack you like that. I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. You are... just as human as I am.”

And just like that, Marley seems to relax a little. She’s the least guarded that Blaine has ever seen her, composure slipping as her eyes grow a little misty. “Thank you,” she says softly. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“I think I do, actually,” he says gently. “You weren’t the only one looking for a friend, Marley.”

Marley looks down at her lap, but Blaine thinks he can still see her smile. “I haven’t had a real friend in so long that I think I forgot how to be one.”

“Well, I still think your social skills are better than mine,” Blaine teases.

“Not really,” she argues quietly. “A real friend would’ve listened to you. A real friend wouldn’t have taken Kurt’s side over yours -- and I _did_ that. I know I told you I wasn’t, but I was. And I’m sorry for that. I just -- you were wrong about me having my choices dictated to me. It’s usually the other way around. And it took me awhile to admit that I can’t do that with you.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says. “It was important to me that you understood that.”

“And it’s important to me that you understand why I did it,” she says.

And again, Tracie was right. With how guarded Marley is, she just needed a little more time before she could feel like she could trust Blaine enough to start volunteering information.

In, out, and Blaine watches Marley’s fingers rub at her wrists. “My dad left when I was really little,” she begins. “My mom pretty much raised me on her own. I grew up in this run-down little suburb just outside of L.A. My mom worked three jobs just to keep a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs and food in our stomachs.” She pauses and finally looks up at Blaine with a somewhat wistful smile. “I fell in love with music at a really young age. I took to it like a fish takes to water. And my mom -- she always said that I had magic in my throat. She --” Eyes closed, and Marley starts to cry. “She worked so _hard_ , you know? She signed me up for voice lessons that I knew we couldn’t afford, and she worked tons of extra hours just to pay for them.”

Blaine digs in his pocket for his handkerchief and holds it out for her when she opens her eyes. She laughs wetly and takes it from him, dabbing at her face. “You don’t have to tell me any of this,” he says quietly. “I know that you value your priv --”

“I trust you,” she says simply. “And I want you to know.”

“Time to be honest?” Blaine guesses.

Marley nods. “And if I can’t be honest with you, I can’t be honest with anyone else.”

“Okay,” he encourages. “I’m listening.”

With Blaine’s handkerchief in her hands, Marley leaves her wrists alone. “When I first got into the industry, I learned very quickly that image is important. It affects perception.”

“You’re lucky that you learned that lesson so much earlier in life than I did,” he sighs.

“I guess,” she says with a shrug. “My mom -- she’s... heavy. And so many of the people I worked with, in the beginning, told me to be careful not to end up like her.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised.”

Marley drops her gaze to the handkerchief in her hands. “I made sure that nothing negative anyone ever said about her got back to her. She wasn’t the one in the public eye. She didn’t deserve to be scrutinized like that.”

“You felt like you had to protect her from how ugly the world could be,” Blaine surmises, and god, so much makes sense now.

“She took care of me for so long,” Marley says thickly. “I felt like it was my turn to return the favor.”

And _oh_ , how Blaine identifies with that. His parents had taken prodigiously good care of him for so long that by the time he was ready to take care of himself in ways outside of composing and moving into his own apartment, he’d wanted to do the same thing that Marley did. He wanted to protect his parents from any pain he might experience.

He realizes, now, that everything is a two-way street. His parents, Kurt, Marley, Tracie -- they can’t always protect him. But it works both ways; he can’t always protect them, either.

It might be time to tell his parents.

“With everything else that was going on, I was just under so much stress,” Marley sighs. “With my work and my mom and then Jake and Ryder, I just -- I felt like I was in the middle of a war zone, you know?”

“You have no idea,” Blaine breathes.

“I just -- I needed something I could control,” she tries to explain, clearly a little agitated. “Food was something I could control. It was already on my mind. So I just... stopped eating. But it didn’t work. People noticed, especially my mom. So I changed tactics. I ate to make her happy, and then I’d force myself to throw up later. I hid _everything_ from her -- the bulimia and the awful things people said and the drama with Jake and Ryder. I didn’t -- I didn’t want to burden her.”

Yeah, Blaine definitely has to tell his parents.

“That’s a lot for one person to try and handle on their own,” Blaine says gently. “Especially considering how young you were.”

“You say that like it was so long ago,” Marley quips. “I’m only twenty-one, Blaine. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Blaine gasps. “You had a birthday while you were back in California, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but don’t worry about it,” she dismisses. “It was pretty low key. I wasn’t really up for being out in public. I just wanted to see my mom. I talked to her about you -- nothing too specific, because of the rules we have in group, but enough for her to know you were important to me.”

Blaine blushes a little and looks down at his lap. “Have you told her any of what you’re telling me now?”

Marley nods. “I told her -- I told her that when I was at my lowest, I felt like I took on the world and lost.”

“I know the feeling,” Blaine says softly.

Marley offers him a small smile and reaches for his hand. “I know you do,” she says. “It’s part of the reason I like being around you. In the middle of a war, you feel like an ally. You just... keep going. You keep marching into battle like you’re never giving up and I just -- it makes me want to not give up.”

_Your progress is encouraging to me_ , Emma had said.

Maybe Blaine has been helping people without even really trying.

Blaine squeezes Marley’s hand. “After Sadie Hawkins, my perception changed. I felt like the world just saw me as ugly, and I didn’t want to be a part of it.” In, out, and Blaine makes sure he meets Marley’s eyes. “I don’t blame you for wanting to hide for awhile, Marley. I hid for ten years.”

“You came out of hiding,” Marley reminds him. “And I think -- I think I’m just about ready to do the same.”

“Well I would hope so,” Blaine teases. “You’ve been working on new material with me for months now. Speaking of which,” he says, glancing over his shoulder momentarily at his desk, “I’m glad we’re speaking again. I can’t finish that piece without you.”

“Actually,” Marley says, perking up a little, “I wanted to talk to you about that. I have a show I’m doing here in the city in September -- a sort of comeback concert, you know? Anyway, I wanted to debut the song then, if I could.”

“I’m sure we can pull it together by then,” Blaine says reasonably.

“That’s... kind of only part of what I wanted to ask you,” she says hesitantly.

“What’s the rest?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d debut it with me,” she ventures.

Blaine blinks in surprise. “What, like come with you and play the piano?”

“At the very least,” she affirms. “I was thinking about asking you to be a guest vocalist, if you were up for it. I know you can sing,” she says teasingly.

“Yeah, but --” Blaine pulls his head away and wraps his arms around himself, suddenly uncomfortable and anxious. “Marley, I haven’t performed in public in eleven years. It’s kind of intimidating to even think about.”

“Okay,” she says quietly, toying with his handkerchief. “You don’t have to. I just thought I’d ask, but I don’t want to make you --”

“Can I think about it?” he interjects, remembering Emma making the same request of him when he’d proposed cooking classes.

“Yeah, of course,” she agrees amicably. “Actually, I, um -- I have something for you. Here --” She gives him back his handkerchief and reaches for the box on the floor, setting it on the couch cushion between them.

Blaine gratefully takes it for what it is -- a change of subject -- but still shifts a little uncomfortably on the couch. “Marley, please don’t feel like -- like you have to _buy_ me things as an apology or something. It’s really not necessary. It makes me kind of --”

“Oh, it’s not an apology,” she interjects. “It’s actually me asking for a favor.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at her. “I’m having a little trouble distinguishing the difference here.”

“Just open it,” she laughs, “and then I’ll explain.”

Blaine heaves a great sigh but does as she asks, opening the box with care and shuffling around the protective packaging inside. There’s another box inside, as well as some other items buried within the tissue paper and bubble wrap, but he focuses on the box and lifts it up and onto his lap.

It’s a camera.

A brand spanking new, digital, extremely expensive camera.

“Marley,” he breathes, heart in his throat. “Marley, I can’t accept this, it’s --”

“ _Please_ , don’t make this about the money,” Marley says quietly. “I told you, this is me asking you for a favor.”

He chokes out a laugh and tries not to cry, looking up at her. “ _How_?”

Marley sits up a little straighter, clearly preparing to have to argue with him, and the tactic makes Blaine’s chest twinge with ache. He doesn’t want to argue with her. He just wants to understand. “Do you remember when you told me about how you rediscovered your love for photography?” she begins. “Do you remember telling me how you were trying to use it to help change your perception of the world and the people in it, because that was something you could control?”

Blaine nods. “The scrapbook’s not quite done yet, but I’m getting closer. Did you have ideas for it or something?”

Marley shakes her head. “I… wanted to ask you to do the same thing for me. I want you to help me use photography to help me change my perception.”

Blaine’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Your perception of what?”

“Myself.”

_I can’t reappear until I can see my own reflection again_ , she’d said back in April.

Marley feels like Blaine did in November, unable to find or recognize herself. She wants something real, something tangible, something in black and white that she can fall back on. There’s so much in her world that’s unreliable, so much she wishes she could have control over. It’s why she’d developed an eating disorder in the first place. And god, Blaine identifies with that so much, the overwhelming need to have control over something in the midst of so much chaos and uncertainty. Part of his lesson had been learning to let go, learning that he couldn’t always have control, learning that that was okay. Marley’s not quite there yet, at least not from what Blaine can tell, but she _is_ at a place he recognizes. She doesn’t just want to recognize the person staring back at her in the mirror -- she wants to like her, too.

In, out, and Blaine tries very, very hard not to cry. He sets the smaller box on the coffee table and the larger on the floor before scooting closer and wrapping his arms around her.

For once, he feels like her elder.

“I would _love_ to help you.”

* * * * *

_Sunday, 26 July 2020_

Blaine feels like he’s coming out all over again.

He feels… nervous, too hot and stifled and awkward in his own skin. It’s cooler, in the evening, and the restaurant is air-conditioned, but it’s only doing so much to help. He’s not sweating profusely, at the very least, so that’s something he can be grateful for. Still, he doesn’t like the waiting, doesn’t like the anticipation of knowing (at least somewhat, anyway) what’s coming. Anticipation makes his anxiety worse, and even though he’d brought his medication with him just in case, he’s wishing he had other ways to curb it. He wishes he could be back in the kitchen cooking, or at the piano playing. He’d even take the stress ball Tracie had given him, at this point. All he has at his disposal is his handkerchief and his napkin (and, well, the napkin ring, but that would be too noisy, especially if he dropped it).

Blaine is twenty-five, but he feels fourteen.

“More water?”

Blaine blinks up from his fidgeting hands to the waiter standing next to him, pitcher in hand. “Yes, please,” Blaine says as politely as he can.

“Are you… alright, sir?” his waiter -- Nicholas, his name is Nicholas -- asks tentatively.

“I’m fine,” Blaine answers airily. “I’m just… waiting for the rest of my party to arrive.” Nicholas leaves him with a polite nod, and Blaine shifts uncomfortably in his seat. God, he hates the waiting. He hates waiting alone even more. It makes him feel vulnerable, like he’s an easy target. It’s a little ridiculous, honestly, in the middle of an upscale, slightly crowded restaurant, but he’s also at a table that’s pretty much right in the center of the restaurant, and he can’t help but feel like all eyes drift to him at some point during the night. Being in the center also makes devising an exit strategy difficult. He can’t just excuse himself and slip out. The bathroom is in the back of the restaurant, not the front. Any attempts to leave will be obvious.

Blaine doesn’t want to leave. He just… doesn’t want to wait much longer.

Thankfully, it’s only a few more moments before his guests are giving their name at the host stand. Blaine nervously pushes himself to his feet, grateful that the dragging of the legs of his chair doesn’t make too much noise against the carpet. He tugs at his bowtie in a futile effort to get a little more air and wonders what he’s supposed to do with his hands and how straight should he stand up and --

In, out.

Blaine watches them come closer, heart hammering in his chest. His mouth twitches into an awkward half-smile and he folds his hands behind his back, waiting. His attention is all in the details for the brief moment of waiting that’s left. He watches as his father takes his mother’s coat and drapes it over the back of her chair, watches his mother set her purse down before lifting her gaze to survey the table.

Blaine meets his mother’s eyes and watches her freeze. His father takes a few extra seconds to catch on, but he seems just as stunned as she is. The three of them stare at each other in silence for a couple of moments, and the tension is so uncomfortable that Blaine can’t actually take it anymore. “Hi,” he offers lamely.

“Hi,” his father answers slowly, a bit delayed. “I thought this was a gift for our anniversary.”

“It is.”

His father’s brow knits a little, clearly still confused. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

“Yeah, well.” Blaine rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck and offers his father a sheepish smile. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” His gaze drifts over to his mother, who is still just standing there _staring_ at him. “Mom?” he prompts gently. “Do you… want to sit down?”

The direct address seems to get her attention, and she blinks rapidly, almost like she’s waking up. “Okay,” she agrees, voice barely there. She sinks down into the chair Blaine’s father pulls out for her, eyes never leaving Blaine’s figure. Her study makes him a little uncomfortable, but he can understand that this is as big of a deal for her as it is for him.

Blaine and his father sit down together, and a few more awkward moments pass before Blaine realizes that he’s the one who has to move the conversation along. “I had them bring water for the table,” he explains, “but I wasn’t sure if you’d want something else to drink. I didn’t want to order wine until you got here, if you wanted it. I won’t drink any, but I thought you might.” Silence, and Blaine realizes that he has to ask direct questions if he wants his mother to respond to anything. “Mom, do you want a glass of wine?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, voice coming out a little high-pitched. “Yes, that -- that sounds good. That sounds… necessary,” she sighs, finally breaking eye contact to look at the table. She looks _overwhelmed_ , and Blaine feels kind of bad for springing the news on her like this. Thankfully, the ordering of and subsequent waiting for the wine buys them all a little time. His mother picks up her glass immediately upon its arrival and downs the whole thing in one go, something he’s never, ever seen her do before. His father looks a little taken aback, too, and maybe a little amused, but neither of them say anything. The ball is very clearly in her court. She sets the glass down on the table with a slightly too-loud _clunk_ and looks back over at her son. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Blaine can’t do more than arch his eyebrows at her before his father bursts out laughing. “Annabelle,” he chuckles, the tone of his voice indicating that he’s trying (and failing) to reprimand her for the question.

“Maybe you should have some bread or something,” Blaine suggests, nudging the basket toward her.

“I don’t want bread, I want answers!” she counters, a little hysterical.

“Annabelle,” his father says again, much more quiet and serious this time.

“You can’t tell me you’re not wondering the same thing, William,” she argues. “I have so many questions. When did this start? What have you been doing? Why haven’t you said anything?”

“ _Annabelle_ \--”

But Blaine shakes his head at his father and pushes himself to his feet, closing the short distance between his chair and his mother’s. He kneels down next to her chair and takes her hands in his. “Mom,” he says, voice clear and quiet. “Mom, breathe.” And she tries, she honest to god tries to calm down, but she’s so overwhelmed at seeing Blaine outside of his apartment that it’s not really working. “Mom,” he says again. “Mom, I’m okay. I’m okay. You’re okay. Breathe.”

In, out.

Her breathing finally evens out again (and god, Blaine does not even know how to deal with the fact that his mother pretty much just had something akin to an anxiety attack in the middle of her favorite restaurant), but it comes at a price. She looks like she’s about ready to cry, but before Blaine can say anything, she pries one of her hands loose and cups his cheek in her hand.

She smiles.

“Mom,” he pleads quietly. “Please, don’t -- don’t _cry_.”

“I think that’s asking a bit much,” his father interjects. Blaine glances over at him and _fuck_ , his dad looks more affected by Blaine’s presence than Blaine thought he would be. He doesn’t look close to tears like Blaine’s mother does, but he still looks _moved_ , and god, Blaine really has no idea how to handle this.

Luckily, his mother does it for him. “Oh, shut up, William,” she babbles, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

His father laughs, an easy, unaffected laugh, and Blaine can’t fight back the smile that blooms onto his face as he reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief. “Here,” he offers, holding it out for her. She takes it from him with a delicate hand and watches him return to his own seat. He glances down at his hands, fidgeting a little uncomfortably. “I want to be able to talk about this,” he says, quiet but firm. “Do you think you can handle that?” His mother assents almost immediately, but his father looks almost… guilty. It takes a few moments before his father offers up his _yes_ , but Blaine can’t really dwell on it now.

He has a story to tell.

“I think you first wanted to know when it -- my… going outside -- all started,” he begins, rubbing his palms flat against his thighs. “I guess, technically, it started in November.”

“When your brother took you outside,” his father supplies.

Blaine nods. “There was someone -- he helped me find my way home. And it was… startling. I’d forgotten that people could be that kind.” He pauses and looks down at his lap for a moment. When he looks back up, his mother’s hand is stretched out across the table in offering.

Blaine takes it.

“We became… friends,” Blaine says carefully. He’s not really sure he’s ready to explain Kurt yet, not to his parents, not when so much else needs to be shared. Kurt’s really an entire conversation in and of himself, and Blaine wants to do him -- them -- justice. “At Christmas, I found my old camera in the closet. He got me taking pictures again.”

His father smiles. “You used the film I sent you.”

“Finally,” Blaine laughs. “And it was… a lot of things that influenced my desires, but in the end, I just… I wanted more than just to manage my anxiety. I wanted change. I wanted the power to affect change. So I made a New Year’s resolution.”

“To go outside,” his father surmises.

“Wait,” his mother says slowly, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “New Year’s, so… January?”

“January,” Blaine affirms. “The seventh, if we’re getting specific. It was my first session with Tracie this year. I met her outside.”

“So your therapist knows,” his father says.

Another nod. “Tracie’s been… amazing,” Blaine enthuses. “She’s really been helping me learn how to deal with everything instead of just… living with it. It hasn’t always been easy, but she’s helped keep me going even when I should have felt like giving up.”

“Did you?” his mother asks softly. “Did you ever feel like giving up?”

“No,” Blaine answers slowly. “I felt… frustrated and angry and helpless at times, but I never wanted to give up. I sought help before I got to that point.”

“So how did you -- how did you _do it_?” his father asks, cringing a little. He must realize how awkward the question sounds.

“Routine,” Blaine sighs, letting it slide. “Tracie said I did well with structure, so we made going outside part of my routine.”

“What have you been _doing_?” his father pries curiously. “Since January?”

“My life isn’t… _that_ different,” Blaine answers, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I still make music for a living. I -- actually, I’ve been working on new material with someone,” he reveals, grateful for something concrete to talk about. “I don’t know that you’re familiar with her -- Marley Rose?”

“I recognize the name, at least,” his father says. “That’s… kind of big.”

Blaine shrugs a little and tries not to think of Marley’s request to join her onstage in September. He doesn’t look at her much like a celebrity anymore, at least not like he used to. “She’s actually turned out to be a really great friend.”

“What else?” his father pries.

Blaine shifts a little in his chair, unsure how to answer. “I don’t know, I just -- I guess I just go out more. I do my own shopping. I take pictures. I went to see a Broadway show in February. I’m taking a cooking class once a month with my friend Emma. I meet people for lunch or… dinner,” he says, unable to prevent himself from breaking out into a grin.

“January,” his mother says abruptly. “You’ve been going outside since January.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why -- when I came to visit you at the end of February, you were sick?” she inquires. “Because you’d been outside?”

Blaine smiles sheepishly and looks down at his lap. “I may have lent a little girl my handkerchief a few days prior to that.”

His father lets out a burst of laughter. “Of course you did.”

“January,” his mother says again. “You’ve been going outside since January.”

“Yes,” Blaine says slowly, wrinkling his nose a little.

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” she asks fervently, gripping his hand a little tighter. “Your father and I have seen you more than a dozen times since then.”

“Annabelle --”

“This has never really been all that easy for us to talk about,” Blaine answers quietly, cutting his father off. He tries not to squirm in his chair, tries not to mentally will their waiter over to the table to take their order, tries not to pull his hand away. “I needed time to make sure I was actually doing okay, and then I just… I don’t know. I felt like you’d seen me suffer enough,” he admits. “This wasn’t easy for me. I struggled a lot. I didn’t want to put you through that. I wanted to wait until I had something to show for it.”

It’s his mother who pulls her hand away, surprisingly. She tucks both hands in her lap, toying with Blaine’s handkerchief, and doesn’t meet his eyes. She looks… stung by Blaine’s confession. It’s not what he’d intended, not at all, but he can’t control the way she thinks or feels or reacts to things. And he can’t base his own thoughts or feelings or reactions on assumptions he makes about hers.

It’s his father who finally speaks up. “While we… appreciate the sentiment, Blaine,” his father says slowly, glancing over at Blaine’s mother, “you’re not the parent, here. You don’t need to protect us.”

In, out, and Blaine closes his eyes. “I know,” he says faintly, flexing his fingers against his thighs. In, out, eyes open and locked with his father’s. “But you can’t always protect me, either.” His mother makes a frustrated noise but doesn’t actually say anything. “Mom?”

“I just don’t understand why you would keep something like this from us,” she bites out.

Blaine sighs and looks down at his lap again. He’d almost forgotten how difficult she can be to deal with sometimes, how completely obstinate and unrelenting she can be. He doesn’t know how else to explain this to her, how to make her understand.

His father does it for him.

“This isn’t about us, Annabelle,” he cuts in quickly, eyes still focused on Blaine. “It’s not -- I’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuine. “I know we make it about us, sometimes.”

“William --”

“He didn’t do this to hurt us, Annabelle,” his father explains a little defensively. “He wanted to wait until --” His father pauses, then, eyes still locked dead on with Blaine’s. And it’s the strangest sensation, but Blaine almost feels like they’re having a conversation without words. Blaine has spent his life living under Cooper’s shadow (often literally). His accomplishments have always seemed dim in comparison, and his anxiety and reclusiveness didn’t exactly help his feelings of inferiority. After so long without change or results, Blaine had wanted something of value to offer them. He thinks his father understands that, judging from the look in his eyes. Blaine only wishes his father could explain it to his mother. “We’re very proud of you.”

“Well, of course we are,” his mother sighs impatiently, but Blaine only has eyes for his father and he will not cry, he will not cry, he will not cry, his mother still has his handkerchief. Blaine never would’ve figured that his father understood him this well.

Then again, his father had noticed that Blaine was changing without Blaine even having to say anything.

“But he didn’t do it to make us proud of him,” his father explains.

“I _know_ that,” his mother snaps. “I --” In, out, lips thinned into a line, and Blaine realizes that she’s frustrated because she’s not being heard or understood, either.

“It’s okay,” Blaine says gently. “Just… tell me how you feel, Mom.”

She seems to take comfort in his words and relaxes a little, toying idly with his handkerchief. “I just wish you would have told us,” she says softly. “I understand that this was your journey to make, Blaine, but I would have liked to have witnessed it.”

Blaine remembers Emma, in that moment. He remembers her telling him that she’s struggled not to look at him as one of her kids. He remembers her telling him that she’d felt like she was watching him come of age.

He’s denied his parents the opportunity they should have had ten years ago.

And finally, _finally_ , Blaine thinks he understands his mother.

Blaine offers his mother his hand, and without hesitation, she takes it.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “But I’m still learning and growing and changing, Mom. You have plenty opportunity to witness all of that. It’s not like there’s some definitive end in sight.”

“Well, thank you,” his father says warmly, clearly trying to put the argument to rest before it goes any further. “Thank you for letting us play witness to your new life now.”

His father reaches out a hand to rest on top of where Blaine’s is joined with his mother’s, and for the first time in a long time, Blaine’s family actually feels like family.

There’s still more work to be done.

His mother, thankfully lets the issue drop (at least for now, anyway), and one by one, all three of them retract their hands, Blaine reclaiming his handkerchief from his mother. Both of his parents reach for their menus, though Blaine isn’t entirely sure why -- this is usually their favorite date night restaurant and he’s fairly certain they know the menu by heart. Blaine follows suit but doesn’t actually read his menu quite yet. “Have you… RSVP’d with Aunt Adrienne for the reunion yet?” Blaine asks hesitantly.

His father blinks at him in surprise. “Yeah, um, about a week and a half ago, I think. Your brother wanted her to save space for him just in case he could make it.”

“Oh,” Blaine says faintly, looking down at his lap.

“Why?”

“I… kind of wanted to go,” Blaine admits, looking back up.

His father surveys him for a moment, quiet and contemplative. For the first time all evening, it doesn’t make Blaine uncomfortable. Even though his father isn’t speaking, Blaine knows exactly what he’s thinking, and he’s willing to let his father take the extra time to be sure of what Blaine has known for awhile, now.

“I’m sure she can make room for one more.”

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 29 July 2020_

Music has always moved him.

He’s still not entirely sure how, exactly, he fell so deeply in love with it. Part of him worries that he took to it mostly because Cooper had taken just about everything else, and music as an area that Blaine could excel in above his brother, at least a little. Part of him thinks that he may have been influenced by his environment growing up, by the plays and musicals he forced his parents to take him to, the productions he participated in. Part of him wonders if there’s some subconscious memory he’s forgetting about, the sound of his mother’s voice singing to him as a child bringing him comfort.

Deep down, he knows the real reason: when words have failed him, music has filled up every pore and veins in his body and made the whole world make sense. It’s why Blaine had been happy, even with anxiety that kept him inside, that he could make a living off of making music. It wasn’t what his brother did, not really. Cooper uses his words and his whole body to tell stories where Blaine uses keys and chords and melodies. Their common ground lies in the fact that they are both still making art. They just choose to express it differently.

Expression is what Blaine loves about his job. When he’d done the score for _Janie’s Garden_ , he’d realized that his form of expression was more necessary than people probably realize. He’d watched the film straight through at first, without music, and had only cried once (and it had been a scene that didn’t _need_ any score because the actress had done her job and played her part well). And then he’d watched it again, and again, and again until the notes started to come to him, hitting the right beats and rhythms. He hadn’t been conceited enough to cry over his own work when it’d been paired up with the film, but he’d certainly cried enough while composing. It was that project that had made him realize just how much power and influence he had over someone’s emotions.

Kurt.

Kurt has moved him enough in the months that they’ve known each other to inspire Blaine to create music that expresses how Kurt makes him feel. Blaine is getting better about using his words to convey his emotions, but it’s comforting to know that music will always have this special purpose and function for him. While Kurt’s already vocalized exactly how he feels, Blaine hasn’t -- at least, not yet, anyway. He wants the words to come easily to him, doesn’t want to have to struggle to get them out. Blaine knows how he feels about Kurt -- he _does_. He knows that he’s in love with Kurt. He’s known that for months, now, and he knows that when he’s ready, when the time is right, he’ll be able to say it.

In the meantime, Blaine still has his music.

Right now, things are quiet. Blaine is thankful that he has air conditioning in this apartment because it is completely, unbearably hot outside, in the thick of summer. Even in the cool of Blaine’s apartment, they’re both too lazy from the idea of the heat outside to want to do much. It’s how they’ve found themselves in short-sleeved shirts and bare feet and sprawled out on the couch, Blaine tucked between Kurt’s legs, his back resting against Kurt’s chest. Blaine has one arm comfortably lifted so he can play with the hair at the nape of Kurt’s neck. Kurt, meanwhile, has taken to brushing his fingertips ever so lightly at the exposed skin near Blaine’s collarbone, fingers dipping beneath Blaine’s shirt. It’s a little maddening -- Blaine’s dick has definitely twitched with interest more than once while they’ve been cuddling -- but it’s also casually intimate in a way that makes Blaine feel comfortable all the way down to his bones.

Blaine wants to fill the silence with music.

Lazily, he turns his head so he can look up at Kurt. Kurt meets his gaze with a sleepy smile, eyebrows arched in silent question. “Can I play something for you?” Blaine asks.

“Sure,” Kurt murmurs, drawing his hand out of Blaine’s shirt. Blaine lifts his head for a brief, soft kiss before untangling himself from Kurt and pushing himself up off of the couch. He moves to his desk, pulling open a drawer and unearthing the score he’s only recently been able to complete. He nudges the drawer shut with his leg and turns toward the piano, only to find Kurt settled comfortably on half of the bench. “This okay?”

Blaine smiles and nods as he arranges the sheet music in front of him. He has it mostly memorized at this point, but he wants the references just in case he forgets something. He sits down on the other half of the bench next to Kurt, flexing his fingers before letting them settle onto the keys.

In, out, and with his eyes closed and Kurt next to him, Blaine lets the music express the words he’s not ready to say.

His memories come in flashes as he plays, expertly coordinated with nuance and finesse after so many practices. He keeps up with the signature of his time, knows which chords and transitions score the film in his head. In and out the memories go, sparking his fingertips as he plays. He remembers the first time he’d seen Kurt smile, the first time their hands had touched. He remembers Kurt keeping him safe, Kurt coming back, again and again and again. He remembers every touch that had led him to believe that whatever they had was more than just friendship, remembers the electric charge waking him up. He remembers the press of Kurt’s lips on his for the first time in February. He remembers each and every touch, taken with care, taking care of him. He plays and he remembers, plays and plays and plays until his heart’s beating so fast that he feels like it’ll burst out of his chest. And then he plays some more, brings it down until the sound of his heart is just a quiet undertone to the music coming out of his fingertips. He plays the last set of chords and leaves his fingers resting on the keys, letting the music vibrate all the way up his fingers into his arms until he is content.

Kurt’s fingers brush against the back of Blaine’s hand, and Blaine opens his eyes to look over at him.

“You take my breath away.”

Blaine leans in for a kiss so quickly and with such force that he almost pushes Kurt clear off of the piano bench, the keys making a discordant _plunk_ sound as their hands clumsily move over them. In, out, and Blaine is _dizzy_ with how much he wants Kurt. They’d both been so relaxed and comfortable only moments ago, but the air is charged with electricity around them now, shocking them into long-awaited action. Kurt inhales sharply and fidgets a little on the piano bench, trying not to fall off. Blaine reaches a hand around and rests his palm flat against the small of Kurt’s back to keep him balanced. Kurt arches against him a little, hand banging awkwardly on the piano again.

It’s _music_ to Blaine’s ears.

It’s with extreme reluctance that Blaine breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Kurt’s. They’re both breathing a little hard and Blaine can see how white Kurt’s knuckles are where they’re gripping the edge of the piano bench. With his hand against Kurt’s back, with how close they are, Blaine can feel Kurt trembling a little. It makes Blaine a little nervous about the words that are about to fall past his lips, but he trusts Kurt to tell him if something’s not okay.

“Come to bed,” he breathes.

He can feel Kurt’s hesitation under his hand, can feel just how still Kurt has become at the request. Blaine takes the hesitation to think about what might be causing it. They both want this. They are both ready -- or at least, they’ve told each other they are ready. They have discussed limitations and safewords and everything in between. Blaine has adhered to Kurt’s request at being present for testing and results. Kurt is clean. Blaine has stocked up on lube and even has a box of condoms just in case Kurt changes his mind. They have waited and delayed and waited some more, all in favor of safety and spontaneity. Blaine figures this is about as spontaneous as they can get, on a hot summer day when Kurt isn’t working and Blaine’s just poured his heart out via piano.

Kurt worms his way out of Blaine’s embrace and pushes himself to his feet, and when he offers his hand to Blaine, all contemplations of motivation for the hesitation are gone. Blaine easily slips his hand into Kurt’s and rises to his feet.

Kurt leads, and Blaine follows.

Together, they perch themselves at the edge of the bed. Immediately, they reach for each other, hands sliding around waists and the back of necks, lips finding each other easily. This, at least, is easy. This is touch that Blaine is familiar with. This is touch he receives well. This is touch he knows how to give. And Blaine gives -- he gives as much as he takes, as much as he possibly can. Kurt’s skin is warm and electrifying where Blaine’s hand rests at the back of his neck, and the way that Kurt is grabbing at Blaine’s shirt at the waist makes Blaine’s blood thrum with possibility. Feeling bold, Blaine presses in close, urging Kurt without words to lie down on the bed.

Blaine leads, and Kurt follows.

And god, it’s _exhilarating_ to be splayed out on top of Kurt like this. Kurt’s always been the one to push Blaine down into the cushions of the couch, but he seems content with letting Blaine take the lead for the time being. Blaine presses his full weight against Kurt, wedging a leg between Kurt’s thighs. It creates a little friction and pressure for Blaine’s dick, which starts to swell and harden in his pants. God, he just wants his pants off. More importantly, he wants Kurt’s pants off. He wants Kurt’s cock in his mouth and Kurt’s hands on his skin and so much more, everything, he wants everything. He’s unsure how long he should wait before he tries to take Kurt’s clothes off and he definitely doesn’t want to stop kissing and god, Marley was right --

Kurt tears his lips away and looks up at him. “Why are you laughing?”

Blaine drops his head to Kurt’s shoulder and relaxes a little. “I’m sorry,” he laughs, the sound coming out muffled. “I just --” He lifts his head and props himself up a little to look at Kurt, smiling. “After my panic attack in April, I told a friend of mine what was going on -- about the potential of losing my virginity and everything. Eventually, she told me that the first time is basically just… awkward. She said that no one really knows where to look or where to put their hands or when to take their clothes off and I’m just… laughing because she’s kind of right.”

Kurt smiles wryly at him. “You were wondering how long you should wait before you start taking my clothes off, weren’t you?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Blaine admits sheepishly.

Kurt rolls them over so that he’s on top, making Blaine’s breath catch in his chest. “Well,” Kurt drawls, tilting Blaine’s chin up a little with his fingers. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Hands…” He takes Blaine’s hand with his free one and moves it down to rest on his ass. “Hands can go there, for now. And timing --” He leans in close, lips ghosting over Blaine’s. “Leave the timing to me.”

Kurt leads, and Blaine is lost to him.

Kurt resumes their kisses, body warm and solid and perfect above Blaine. Blaine can feel more of Kurt like this, can feel the press of Kurt’s cock even through several layers. Kurt’s fingers fumble with the buttons of Blaine’s shirt, working furiously to undo them as quickly as possible. “I have wanted to get this shirt off of you all day,” Kurt confesses, pulling back a little in order to actually see what he’s doing. He finally manages to get all of the buttons undone, and Blaine eagerly props himself up on his elbows, helping Kurt get the shirt off of him.

Kurt tosses the shirt aside and immediately crowds back in, sliding his tongue into Blaine’s mouth with a practiced ease. Blaine reaches back down and grabs at Kurt’s ass again, squeezing and groping and _god_ , Kurt’s ass feels amazing under his hands, even just through Kurt’s jeans. He’d almost forgotten how good it feels to touch Kurt like this, to make Kurt fall apart under his touch. Blaine knows how amazing Kurt’s ass feels, skin on skin, and he wants to feel it again, but Kurt is taking the lead at the moment. Blaine is more than happy to let him, especially once Kurt starts rolling his hips down to get friction for his cock. His search creates friction for Blaine’s as well, and together, they rock, moaning into each other’s mouths.

But it gets to be a bit much after a few moments, the friction wonderful but not enough. Blaine is _hard_ , and he much prefers how Kurt’s skin feels against his own. Taking the lead, Blaine breaks their stream of kisses and ducks his head down. Kurt props himself up a little to allow Blaine access, panting hard and whimpering a little when Blaine undoes the button of his jeans and yanks the zipper down. Blaine hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs down, letting out a frustrated whine when they don’t come down quickly enough. Kurt gets up onto his knees and does the rest of the work, shucking off his jeans and tossing them aside before leaning back in.

And yes, Kurt’s ass does feel better with the jeans out of the way, the thin material of his boxer briefs molding deliciously over it. But Kurt’s ass (and his dick, god, Blaine can see the outline of his dick in those boxer briefs, _jesus_ ) isn’t what holds his attention right now. Blaine will be sure to pay special attention to it later, when all of their clothes are gone, but all he can think about right now is his escapades in masturbation a couple of months ago. It’d felt so good, then, to think of Kurt, to reclaim his body as his own, but he remembers a distinct feeling of loneliness, too. He remembers missing the feeling of Kurt’s kiss, remembers thinking that sex with another person had to be better than masturbating alone.

God, he loves that he was right.

Granted, they’re both still half dressed and not even close to having sex yet, but Blaine’s pretty sure he’s going to be right, anyway. It’s already better with kissing.

Kurt pulls back after a few more moments, causing Blaine’s hands to slide off of his ass. He reaches down a hand and pauses at the waistband of Blaine’s pants, flicking his eyes up to meet Blaine’s. “Green?” he checks breathlessly.

Blaine knows he’s thinking about April, but it’s not April. It’s not April and it’s not raining. It’s July and it’s hot and Blaine wants their clothes _off_. “Green,” he affirms, nodding in assent. Button undone and zipper down, Kurt tugs at Blaine’s pants. Down, down, down until they’re off. Down, down, down, Kurt settles back on top of Blaine and reclaims his mouth. Their legs brush against each other, mostly bare now. Blaine revels in the skin on skin contact, veins feeling like they’re sparking and electrocuting down his legs, down, down, down to his toes. Together, they move, every roll of their hips creating more pressure and friction than before now that there are only two very thin layers of fabric keeping them apart. It’s glorious and Blaine is achingly hard and Kurt’s shirt is on, _why_ is Kurt’s shirt still on? Blaine fists a hand in the back of Kurt’s shirt as they kiss, dragging the hem up, up, up until they have to break apart in order for Blaine to tug it off.

Shirt off and lips together and _oh_ , this feels _wonderful_. It’s more than just the press of lips, more than just the skin on skin contact -- Blaine can feel Kurt’s heart beating against his chest. It makes him feel… safe, _protected_ , and again he finds that he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he would.

Blaine remembers, then, the permission that Kurt had given him. Kurt had said no unnecessary roughness or hitting, but he’d also said that Blaine was free to grope and bite and scratch. Curious, Blaine arches up a little, kissing harder, and experimentally drags his nails down Kurt’s back. Kurt lets out a muffled moan against Blaine’s mouth, hips pressing down a little harder. Encouraged, Blaine digs his nails in a little deeper, knowing it has to sting a little. Kurt’s response is almost immediate; he drags Blaine’s lower lip between his teeth, biting down in retaliation. Blaine’s hips buck up of their own accord as he groans into Kurt’s mouth. Together, they start to thrust a little harder, a little faster against each other, panting into each other’s mouths.

And then Kurt _stops_ and Blaine feels like his skin is about to break open. Kurt takes a second to catch his breath before anchoring a hand on Blaine’s hip just above the waistband of his underwear. “I’m going to take these off now, okay?” Kurt says, breathless and a little too quickly.

“ _Please_ ,” Blaine groans, reaching down his own hand to help Kurt tug his underwear off.

And then Blaine is naked -- _naked_ in front of him, and for the briefest of seconds, he feels a little vulnerable. Kurt’s eyes sweep up and down his figure slowly, and it’s with the slowest of exhales that Kurt closes his eyes. “It’s honestly a miracle that I’ve managed to keep my hands off of you this long.”

Blaine can barely do more than smile in response. His laugh dies in his throat as Kurt’s mouth sinks down over his cock, and it’s with a sharp gasp that Blaine beats his fist into the mattress and arches up a little, hips bucking up into the tight, wet heat. Kurt jerks back, coughing, and presses a hand gently down on Blaine’s hip. “Take it easy,” he instructs. “I do still have a tiny bit of a gag reflex, you know.”

“Sorry,” Blaine pants, relaxing against the mattress and pillows again. “I just -- I wasn’t expecting you to do that right then.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt assures him, kissing the inside of his thigh. “Just… try to relax, okay? I just want to make you feel good.”

“Okay,” he agrees, voice shaking. He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, he’s so turned on right now. And then Kurt’s mouth is back on him, sinking down more slowly this time. He presses his tongue flat against the underside of Blaine’s cock, causing it to drag deliciously every time he bobs up and down (and Blaine is going to have to remember that for when he reciprocates because _fuck_ , that feels incredible). Kurt’s hands dig underneath Blaine so that he can knead at Blaine’s ass, hands warm and firm and oh my _god_ , Blaine is going to _die_ , he’s so turned on right now. This is going to be over embarrassingly fast and it’s barely begun.

With all the reluctance in the world, Blaine reaches down and shoves a little at Kurt’s shoulder, gasping as Kurt’s mouth slides off of him. “You okay?” Kurt murmurs, redirecting his mouth to suck open-mouthed kisses along the inside of Blaine’s other thigh.

“Fine,” Blaine gasps, breathing hard. “Just -- I was going to come soon if you didn’t stop. I’m not ready for it to be over yet.”

Kurt smiles against his thigh and presses one last kiss there before moving back up Blaine’s body until they’re eye level. “First of all,” he sighs, propped up on arms hovering over Blaine and oh god, oh god, oh god, this is not helping, “while it is not entirely necessary, it’s usually preferred if both partners achieve an orgasm at some point.” That defuses the tension a little, and Blaine can’t help arching an eyebrow at him in slight annoyance. He’s perfectly aware of that fact, thank you. “Second,” Kurt continues, “you don’t have to feel bad about coming quickly. I wouldn’t expect you to last long your first time with someone else. And honestly? I have a pretty good relationship with my right hand, Blaine, but it has been well over a year since I’ve had sex with someone. I’m not exactly going to last all that long the first time, either.”

Blaine smiles and relaxes a little. Kurt’s confession _does_ comfort him, which he’s sure was the intent. Still, Blaine wants to make this last as long as he can even if they get to do it again. “I’d still like to last a little longer,” he admits quietly, running his hand down Kurt’s side. “Why don’t you let me,” he suggests, fingertips dancing down past the waistband of Kurt’s boxer briefs, “take care of you for now?” He molds his hand and fingers over the outline of Kurt’s dick and is rewarded when Kurt bucks into his hand with a gasp. “Would you like to get these off?”

“Yes,” Kurt chokes out wildly, hands struggling to tug off his underwear. “Yes, _please_ , it was torture having you sit in my lap earlier, I swear to god.” Off the underwear comes, kicked awkwardly off of Kurt’s ankles and onto the floor.

Kurt is finally naked in front of him, and Blaine notices that he looks a little vulnerable, too.

This is Kurt’s body, flesh and blood and muscle and bone. So much of it has been used to give, to help. This is the body that has protected people for the last four years. This is the body that found him, the body that helped him, the body that took him home. This is the body afraid of itself, afraid of its potential, afraid of hurting someone. This is the body that has pressed itself against Blaine and curled up around him. This is the body that has made him feel safe. This is the body that has made him feel loved. This is a body that is more fragile than it appears, and while Blaine doesn’t want to treat it that way, he does want to treat it well.

Kurt has given so much.

Blaine wants to give a little back.

Tentatively, he reaches his hand down and wraps it around Kurt’s dick, squeezing a little to get a feel for it. Kurt whines and slowly pumps his hips forward, chasing more. Blaine arches up and kisses Kurt a little off-center. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, gripping Kurt’s cock and little harder. He strokes slowly at first, experimental, before he picks up his pace. Kurt matches his strokes with thrusts of his own, pushing his cock through Blaine’s fist. The angle is a little awkward and Blaine is craning up and Kurt is trembling violently above him, barely able to keep himself up. But it’s perfect -- it’s perfect because it’s here and now and them and nothing between them and finally, _finally_ , Blaine can start to feel the pieces click into place.

God, he loves this man.

Kurt’s hips are practically pistoning forward now, eager and sloppy. Blaine has to tighten his grip just to keep them center and balanced. Kurt is panting and groaning and gasping above him and sex is so much better than Blaine had ever thought it could be. It’s his touch that’s making Kurt fall apart, his touch that’s healing, his touch that’s helping. He gets to lie here and watch the muscles in Kurt’s arms and hands tighten and flex, gets to watch every little twist of altered pleasure in the lines of Kurt’s face.

Naked and bare and vulnerable, Kurt still takes Blaine’s breath away.

“Blaine,” Kurt breathes, hips snapping forward erratically. Blaine takes it for what it is -- a sign that Kurt must be getting close -- and tightens his grip, jerking faster. Kurt’s cock is leaking precome, now, which Blaine uses to help with lubrication. Jerking off dry has never felt all that good to him. He can only imagine that it’s the same for Kurt. “Blaine,” Kurt says again, wild and uninhibited. Blaine arches a little closer, trying for a kiss, but Kurt can’t stay still long enough for their lips to meet. “Blaine,” he gasps. “Blaine, I -- I --” Eyes squeezed shut and Kurt clearly isn’t breathing but he fucks his cock up through Blaine’s fist twice more before stuttering, “ _Ye -- yellow_.”

But it’s too late, Kurt’s already coming, and the best that Blaine can do to meet his request is to relax his grip and slow his stroking. It’s a miracle Blaine manages to do that, honestly, because all he can really focus on right now is Kurt’s face when he comes and the fact that he comes hot and thick and white all over Blaine’s stomach and chest.

Holy _fuck_.

Kurt hovers above him for a moment, eyes still squeezed shut and hips pivoting weakly. He makes a few, aborted gasping sounds as his orgasm hits him, and the second that he’s even remotely aware that he’s pretty much done coming all over Blaine, he falls over onto his back next to Blaine, gasping for air.

Blaine wants to be able to curl up on his side next to Kurt, but he’s wet and sticky and covered in come. He opts for lolling his head to the side so he can look at his post-orgasm boyfriend. He gives Kurt a minute or two before asking, “Are you okay? I know you called _yellow_ , but at that point you were kind of already coming, so.”

“I’m fine,” Kurt breathes, laughing a little. “I’m _fantastic_. Don’t -- don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, waving his hand idly. “It was kind of a misuse of the safeword anyway. I wasn’t uncomfortable with what you were doing. I just… didn’t want to come that soon, either.”

“We can go for round two later, if you want,” Blaine offers. “In the meantime, I think I’ve had enough of a break, if you still wanted to --”

“Yes, of course,” Kurt insists, glancing over at him. “Just… give me another minute or two and then I’ll clean you up.”

Blaine glances down at himself and oh, right. He’d nearly forgotten that he’s kind of covered in his boyfriend’s come. It’s… kind of hot, honestly, or at least as hot as it is sticky and uncomfortable. Curious, Blaine sweeps some of Kurt’s come onto his thumb and sucks it into his mouth, tongue seeking out the flavor. Bitter, obviously, but not in an unpleasant way, and --

“Are you kidding me?”

Blaine glances back over at Kurt, tip of his thumb still in his mouth. He widens his eyes a little innocently and pulls his thumb out with a slight _pop_. “What?”

“You can’t just do things like that,” Kurt groans. “I can’t get hard again that fast.”

Blaine grins at him. “Well, then maybe you should clean me up before I do it for you.”

Kurt groans but rolls back over to be closer to him anyway. He reaches for the box of tissues on the nightstand and sets to work, taking care not to spread it too much. And Blaine loves this, too, loves the clean-up just as much as the sex. He hasn’t even come yet and he’s already basking in afterglow -- well, Kurt’s afterglow, at least. Blaine likes the extra care Kurt puts into taking care of him, even if he doesn’t always need it. He’s finally starting to understand that having someone look out for him, having someone take care of him, is a form of protection that doesn’t necessarily take away his agency.

Kurt tosses the tissues away in the small waste basket near Blaine’s bed and turns his attention back to his boyfriend. Blaine grins up at him as he leans in for a kiss, Kurt’s hands finding his skin. Kurt’s touch is the same as it always has been, warm and electrifying. Blaine arches into it, yearning to be closer, and Kurt inhales sharply through his nose. He responds by hooking his leg over Blaine’s and pressing in closer, dragging Blaine’s lower lip between his teeth as he adjusts. He moves his leg the rest of the way over until he’s straddling Blaine, ass rubbing up teasingly against Blaine’s cock. Blaine’s whole chest feels tight that he can hardly _breathe_ at the sight of Kurt on top of him like this, tall and towering and solid. Kurt smiles down at him, mischievous and a little seductive as he leans in, palms running up the expanse of Blaine’s torso.

Too-fast, Kurt’s hands are enclosed around Blaine’s wrists, forcing them from where they rest at his sides until they’re above his head, pinned against the mattress. Kurt bends down for another kiss, hard and searing and a little dirty. Blaine answers Kurt’s moan with his own and tries to remember how to breathe. His chest feels like it’s going to burst open and his head is spinning and he’s _so_ turned on right now and he can’t _move_ because Kurt has him pinned against the bed and --

\-- and the soft mattress turns to hard brick as he remembers every harsh blow to his head, his stomach, unable to move, unable to fight back --

“Red,” Blaine gasps, tearing his lips away. “Red, red, red, red, _red_.”

Kurt pulls away instantly, sitting back up. Blaine focuses on breathing, eyes open, hands anchored on Kurt’s hips to keep him in place. “You okay?” Kurt asks softly. “Do you want me to get your medication?”

Blaine shakes his head but scoots up a little on the mattress until his head rests against the pillow that’s leaning against the headboard. “No, I’m okay,” he says, exhaling slowly. “I -- I just...”

Kurt reaches down and takes one of Blaine’s hands in his, bringing Blaine’s hand up to his mouth to kiss the fingertips. “Talk to me.”

In, out. “In the alley,” Blaine says evenly, “they pinned us against the wall. We couldn’t move.”

Kurt studies him for a moment before nodding and leaning in close again. “No restraints. Got it.”

“It’s not like, a mood killer for you or anything, is it?” Blaine asks. “You didn’t want to try anything with handcuffs?”

Kurt rolls his eyes and grinds his hips down, ass rubbing against Blaine’s cock a little. “Does that answer your question?” Blaine gasps, hips pivoting up to try and get some friction for his cock. “I prefer to keep my professional life and my personal life separate.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at him. “Oh really?” he says dryly.

“Oh shut up,” Kurt snaps, but there’s no malice behind it, and he’s soon leaning in for another kiss. He wraps his hands around to the back of Blaine’s neck, prompting Blaine to curl his own around to Kurt’s ass, up over his hips, palms smoothing over his back, holding him close. But Kurt pulls away, just a little, leaving Blaine chasing his lips. “Blaine,” Kurt points out gently, “you’re trembling.”

Fuck, he _is_. He’s trembling and vibrating and he feels uncomfortable in his own skin and he hates it, why did he have to safeword, why did he have to have a flashback, why did he have to be triggered by something that innocuous, why, why, _why_?

“Blaine,” Kurt says again, attempting to refocus him. “Blaine, look at me,” he instructs, still gentle. He guides Blaine’s face so that their line of vision matches up. “Breathe, honey.”

In, up, out, down.

In. Up. Out. Down.

“Are you sure you don’t need your medication?” Kurt checks.

Kurt is _asking_ (and Blaine finally understands why it’s so important that he does), so Blaine tries to take a minute to think about his answer. He’s still kind of turned on, but he’s also uncomfortable and too close to the memory of the alley. He doesn’t -- it’s not too hard to breathe, not now. He doesn’t feel… panicked, exactly. He’s not even sure that he feels anxious, really. He can’t pinpoint the emotion he’s feeling and it’s driving him crazy, because he wants this, wants Kurt, wants to keep going.

One thing at a time. Start at the beginning.

“I don’t need it,” he says as clearly as he can.

“Okay,” Kurt says quietly, and Blaine finds himself grateful that Kurt isn’t arguing with him. “Still, maybe we should… wait a little bit.”

Blaine lets out a frustrated sigh and rubs a hand over his face, wishing he could control his trembling. “I’m _tired_ of waiting. I know I used the safeword, Kurt, but I don’t -- I don’t want to _stop_.”

“I’m not saying we have to wait a whole extra day or anything like that,” Kurt explains. “Just… maybe take things down to yellow for a while. Give you time to regroup. You did say _red_ , Blaine. Do you really want to try coming feeling like this?”

“No,” Blaine admits.

Kurt bites his lip, running his thumbs up and over Blaine’s cheek bones. “It’s your choice,” he says finally. “I just… don’t want you to regret whatever choice you make.”

“I’m not going to regret having sex with you,” Blaine insists.

“That’s not what I meant,” Kurt sighs. “I just meant -- timing. There are reasons we’ve waited, Blaine.”

There’s truth in that, but Blaine has worked so _hard_ not to let those reasons hold him back anymore. But they are, at least right now, and he doesn’t think he could come even if he tried, not feeling like this, like there’s something crawling under his skin. “Okay,” he agrees quietly. “Yellow.”

Kurt adjusts his position so that he’s lying on top of Blaine instead of straddling him. Blaine sighs and closes his eyes, taking comfort in the gentle touch of Kurt’s fingertips across his abdomen and chest. Kurt lets a few moments of silence pass between them, clearly waiting for Blaine’s trembling to ebb a little before he asks, “Do you want to talk about it more?”

“You don’t think that would be counterproductive to trying to get rid of this feeling?” Blaine says, frustrated.

“No,” Kurt says slowly. “I don’t. I actually thought it might be helpful.”

“How?”

“You’re remembering things,” Kurt points out. “What I did triggered a memory. I just -- if you’re already thinking about it, you might pick up on other things we should avoid. But -- even if we don’t get anything like that out of it, talking about it might get it out of your system, at least for the time being.”

Talking about it means that the yellow lasts longer, but Kurt is probably right. Talking about it may be the best way to get it out of his system. Blaine doesn’t want this feeling to linger too long, especially not today. He wants to be able to appreciate Kurt’s touch without feeling like the worst version of himself.

He doesn’t want to feel ugly.

In, out.

“They had a bat,” Blaine says flatly.

“Wait,” Kurt interrupts. “Open your eyes for me.” Blaine blinks his eyes open, a little jarred and confused. Kurt readjusts them again, moving one of Blaine’s arms around him and grasping Blaine’s other hand with his own. “I’m right here,” Kurt reminds him. “Just… keep your eyes open and remember that, okay?”

The trembling starts to subside.

“They had a bat,” Blaine says again, exhaling slowly. “They had a bat and they used it to fracture two of my ribs. And I think -- I think, subconsciously, that the panic attacks were so much worse in the beginning because that’s what I’d think about. I’d have trouble breathing and remember feeling the same way. I remember everything being just kind of… fuzzy. And they had my arms pinned against the wall and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t do anything for myself or my friend.”

In, out. The trembling is barely there, now, but the feeling still lingers, just under his skin.

“I lost time. I hardly remember what it was like when I was first in the hospital. Everyone told me, later, that I had trouble sleeping, that I’d wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. It didn’t get any better when I got home,” Blaine says, trying not to sound bitter, and he’s not even aroused anymore, fuck, he hates this. “My parents got me help. I got put on antidepressants, at first. I hated them. I hated the way they made me feel. The whole world just felt…”

“Fuzzy?” Kurt supplies helpfully.

“Yeah,” Blaine sighs, feeling Kurt’s skin come alive under his touch. “I felt like I was underwater. Everything was just kind of… numb. And the antidepressants didn’t stop the flashbacks or night terrors. I’d still wake up screaming. And my poor parents -- I don’t think they slept well at all that entire year. They took turns coming in to calm me down.

“The thing is, when I’d wake up in the middle of the night, I wasn’t -- I wasn’t screaming because I was afraid. Every time I had a flashback, all I could focus on was the fact that I didn’t have control over anything that was happening, and it made me… _angry_. I couldn’t feel anything else, but when I’d wake up, I could feel the anger.”

“Is that how you feel now?” Kurt pries gently. “Angry?”

“I feel like I _should_ feel angry,” Blaine tries to explain, “because I’m remembering it. It’s _like_ anger, but it’s not -- not exactly.”

“Okay, so is it a control thing?” Kurt ventures.

“No,” Blaine huffs. “It’s --” In, out, and he has to try very hard to keep his eyes open as he tries to figure out a way to explain what he’s feeling. After ten years of therapy, it should be easy, but it isn’t. Words have always been so much harder for him than music, elusive and sometimes too accurate for his comfort. But he’s trying, he’s _trying_ to be better about it, using his words. In, out, and he navigates his way through what he’s feeling with words. “When I finally got switched over to Klonopin, everything was so much better. It was like…”

“Resurfacing?”

“Like waking up,” Blaine breathes, tremors gone. “I felt like I could breathe again. It helped me manage my anxiety, at least to an extent. I still felt anxious sometimes. I felt afraid and frustrated. But music made me feel safe. Baking made me feel hungry. But that’s the thing -- I could _feel_ all of those things again. And I’d rather take all of those things together and be anxious and occasionally have panic attacks than just feel angry all the time. Feeling angry just reminded me of how they saw me, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life feeling angry and ugly. That’s not me. That’s not the person I am. That’s not who I want to be.”

In, out, and Kurt’s hands are smooth and soft and gentle and loving against his skin.

Blaine feels like himself again.

“You are _so_ much more than that,” Kurt breathes.

Blaine offers him a small smile and squeezes his hand, restarting the current. “You reminded me that I could be.”

And the tension from earlier is back, now, hanging heavy in the air between them as their eyes meet. It’s like sitting on the piano bench all over again, wanting touch that makes him feel good, wanting a kiss, wanting Kurt. Blaine’s dick twitches with renewed interest, and Kurt only fuels the fire by sliding back up and snaking his hands around Blaine’s waist, lips pressed against Blaine’s ear. “Let me,” Kurt whispers, hands flexing at Blaine’s sides. “Let me make you feel beautiful.”

Blaine closes his eyes in an effort not to cry.

This isn’t a fantasy.

Kurt pulls his head back, just barely, so that he can look Blaine in the eye. “Green?” he asks breathlessly.

With their hands on each other’s skin, Blaine feels the current thrum back to life.

“Green,” he agrees thickly, hardly able to speak. He drags a hand up through Kurt’s hair along the back of his head and tugs him down and in for a kiss. Kurt kisses him back with equal fervor, again and again and again. He pulls Blaine a little higher with each kiss, gasping the word against Blaine’s kiss any time they break apart -- _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_. He takes Blaine’s breath away with every kiss that leads them higher, every utterance of the word that seeps into his bones -- _beautiful, beautiful_.

Beautiful.

Down, down, down Kurt’s kisses go, along Blaine’s neck and chest. Blaine can feel how his heart races as Kurt’s lips press over the skin covering it. Down, down, down Blaine’s head goes, back against the pillows as his eyes slip shut and he revels in the attention Kurt is lavishing his body with. Each kiss is like a spark, charging him up, and Blaine can feel his body thrum with possibility again. Down, down, down, and Kurt’s mouth sinks down over Blaine’s cock again, wet and warm and waiting. Blaine can feel his dick start to swell and harden again, albeit slowly, and as he sinks his hands into Kurt’s hair, he finds that he doesn’t mind having to restart.

It’s definitely lasting longer than he’d originally thought.

Kurt’s the one to make the call of when he should stop this time around, lingering only until Blaine is hard in his mouth. Up, up, up, Kurt’s lips trail back up the path he’d marked on his way down, tongue making a detour and dipping into Blaine’s navel teasingly. It tickles, a little, but it’s also fairly (and maybe a little weirdly) arousing, and makes his stomach flip in anticipation. Up, up, up, back over Blaine’s heart, teeth along Blaine’s neck, hand curling around to the back of Blaine’s neck to keep him close. A leg on either side of Blaine, Kurt dives in for more kisses, ass rubbing a little teasingly against Blaine’s cock. Blaine makes a pleased noise into Kurt’s mouth, feeling aroused and tingly in the best possible way. He moves his hands to rest on Kurt’s back again, anchoring at Kurt’s scapulas, and everything feels wonderfully familiar.

They’re picking up where they left off.

“Lube?” Kurt asks between kisses.

“Top drawer,” Blaine murmurs against his lips.

He can hear Kurt fumbling around blindly for it for a minute before he finally grabs it, and it’s only then that Kurt pulls away. He presses the bottle against Blaine’s chest and looks him directly in the eye when he asks, “Do you want to stretch me open, or would you like me to do it?”

Blaine’s mouth goes dry at the question.

Kurt wants Blaine to fuck him.

Somehow, this doesn’t totally match up with what Blaine thought his first time would be like. He wants to try everything, but he’s also imagined that his slight preferences (or what he imagines would have been his preferences, anyway) -- giving head, bottoming -- would help guide him when he did finally lose his virginity. Of course, there’s nothing to say that Blaine can’t still have those things -- he does want to try as many things as he possibly can with Kurt -- but it’s still a little jarring.

And, well, Blaine can’t ignore the way his dick twitches painfully at the mental image of Kurt riding him.

“I want to,” Blaine answers softly, taking the bottle from him. Kurt smiles and moves a little closer so that Blaine doesn’t have to stretch his arm as much. Blaine coats his fingers in lube and sets the bottle on the nightstand before turning his attention back to Kurt. He hesitates for a moment, suddenly struck with the reality of what he’s about to do.

Kurt takes his hand and leads.

Blaine follows.

He drags tentative, trembling fingers down between Kurt’s cheeks, loving the way Kurt shivers against him. Blaine lingers over the puckered skin of Kurt’s hole, rubbing the pad of his finger in circles. “ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt whines. “Stop teasing.” Blaine drops a soft kiss to Kurt’s clavicle and acquiesces, pressing his middle finger inside up to the first knuckle. Kurt inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away or tell Blaine to stop. Blaine tries to start off slow and takes his time working his middle finger in up to the second knuckle, but by the time he manages to make that happen, Kurt seems to be losing patience. “Another,” he breathes. A second finger worked in a little more quickly, this time all the way in. Kurt moans into his ear and bears down, asking again, _another_. Three, and Blaine tries to slow down at little. He doesn’t want to rush this, doesn’t want to hurt Kurt either. He wants to give Kurt enough time to be ready, but he has to remind himself that Kurt knows himself -- his body and his limitations -- better than Blaine does. So Blaine waits patiently as Kurt meets him, hips bearing down with every press in of Blaine’s fingers. It helps, the two of them working in tandem, and Blaine feels Kurt open up for him, warm and inviting.

“Okay,” Kurt whispers into his ear. Slowly, Blaine pulls his fingers out and distracts himself with the task of coating his dick in lube while Kurt moves down and settles between Blaine’s legs on his haunches. In, out, and Blaine’s nerves are calmed a little by Kurt’s gentle caress of his thigh. In, up, out, down, and Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine’s knee. “You okay?” he checks, dragging his hand up Blaine’s torso until he’s crowded in close again. “It’s okay if you’re nervous, Blaine --”

Blaine grasps Kurt’s hand with his own and rests it over his heart to anchor himself. “I’m not nervous,” he says evenly, surprising himself a little. “Not with you.”

“Okay,” Kurt says with a warm smile, adjusting his position so that he’s straddling Blaine again. “Just… try not to move too much,” Kurt instructs, reaching back and wrapping a hand around Blaine’s cock. He angles them both until Blaine’s cock is lined up against his hole. The head of Blaine’s cock catches and drags against Kurt’s rim for a second before Kurt sinks down over it a little, enveloping just the head.

All Blaine can register is _tight_ and _heat_. He jolts, unable to keep himself from sitting up a little, and his abdominal muscles _burn_ from the position. His toes curl, digging into the comforter, and he squeezes his eyes shut and gasps for air, overwhelmed. Kurt stops, awkwardly hovering over him, the head of Blaine’s dick still in his ass. Again, Kurt asks if he’s okay, though his voice is a little more high-pitched and strung out now. Blaine nods, biting his lip, but Kurt doesn’t seem to believe him, because again, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Trembling, Blaine struggles to catch his breath, but he nods again, opening his eyes. “Yeah,” he assures Kurt breathlessly. “I just -- it’s a _lot_. And I -- I think I understand the meaning of the phrase toe-curling, now.”

That gets Kurt to smile, and he presses his palm flat against Blaine’s abdomen. The touch calms Blaine down a lot, and he relaxes back against the pillows again. “Green?” Kurt asks.

“Maybe yellow,” Blaine amends. “Just… go slow. I’m like… _this close_ to coming,” he laughs. Kurt nods and continues to sink down onto Blaine’s cock. Blaine holds his breath for half a moment, trying not to be overwhelmed by the stimulation around his dick. Up a little, down a little more, Kurt’s eyes slip shut as he works himself onto Blaine’s cock. The further down he gets, the louder he gets, letting out these delicious, high-pitched, breathy little moans that only turn Blaine on more. Blaine’s breath stutters once Kurt’s fully seated on Blaine’s cock. It feels good -- it feels _amazing_ , so amazing that Blaine _knows_ he’s not going to last long. But it also feels a little… distant. There’s a distinct lack of the kind of intimacy that Blaine has loved so much, and it takes his brain a minute to figure out that while their skin is touching, it’s not enough. Blaine reaches out for Kurt’s hips, hands searching for an anchor, and grips tight.

Blaine leads, and Kurt follows.

Kurt responds to Blaine’s touch by leaning in close, bending a little so that their chests touch. Kurt groans a little, the movement changing the angle and pressure where they’re joined. It’s so much better like this, with skin on skin contact, Kurt pressed right up against him. Kurt’s only a little hard against Blaine’s stomach, but he’s still clearly affected by Blaine being inside of him. And Blaine loves that. He loves that Kurt is still _enjoying_ this even though he’s already come. Anchored and protected, Blaine looks to make sure Kurt feels just as loved. He lifts one of his hands and brings it to rest on Kurt’s shoulder blade, remembering his realization that Kurt likes to be held. He’s rewarded when Kurt snuggles in closer and makes a pleased noise, lips pressing a kiss against Blaine’s jawline.

The gesture sparks a desire in him, and he dips his head down a little to capture Kurt’s lips with his own. Kurt lets out a muffled moan against Blaine’s mouth and starts to move his hips, grinding a little on Blaine’s cock.

_Definitely_ better with kissing.

Their kisses turn dirty and a little wild, tongues twisting and teeth dragging. It’s _intoxicating_ , especially with the way Kurt’s bouncing down onto Blaine’s cock, and Blaine is lost once again to this man who can always find him. He can’t let go, can’t lose his anchor, can’t relax his grip on Kurt’s skin. Tighter and tighter, head growing dizzy with how little oxygen he’s getting, Blaine feels comfortable in his own skin but is so, so ready to break out of it.

“Move,” Kurt gasps against his lips. “You can move.”

Blaine bites his lip briefly, contemplating, before he leans back in and kisses Kurt hard on the mouth. Kurt picks up his pace, moving a little faster, and Blaine can’t take it anymore. He gives in to Kurt’s prompting and bucks his hips up in tandem with Kurt working his hips down. Blaine’s heart leaps into his throat at how incredible it feels, the drag and pressure on his cock. He inhales sharply and pivots up again, and again, four, five, six --

He tears his lips away and gasps, heart hammering as he comes.

It feels like waking up.

His breath is shaky and uneven as he comes down, muscles and limbs finally relaxing. He tosses his head back against his pillow, exposing his neck, and tries very hard to remember how to breathe. Kurt’s lips press feather light against Blaine’s clavicle, sending little sparks of electricity through Blaine’s system that make him shiver. Kurt trails kisses up along the column of Blaine’s throat before reclaiming Blaine’s mouth in a searing kiss.

So. Much. Better. With kissing.

“Okay,” Kurt says breathlessly, placing a hand over Blaine’s thundering heart to steady himself. “Okay, I’m gonna need to get up in a minute, if that’s okay with you.”

“Just go slow,” Blaine says, still trembling.

Kurt lifts himself up slowly with a groan, pushing himself up onto his knees, hovering over Blaine for a moment. He closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing. “I’m going to go in the bathroom and clean up,” he says clearly, opening his eyes. “And then I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Blaine says softly, grinning at him as he pushes himself off of the bed and walks a little awkwardly into the bathroom.

Kurt really does have a fantastic ass.

Blaine finally starts to feel like he’s regaining use of his limbs, so he reaches over to the tissue box on the nightstand and grabs a few to clean himself off with. He’s sure he’s not nearly as messy as Kurt is (and that leads to the realization that Kurt is cleaning Blaine’s come out of his ass and _fuck_ , Blaine cannot get hard again that fast, he totally gets it now). He tosses the tissues into the wastebasket and awkwardly kicks the comforter around until he can wriggle his legs under it. With a contented sigh, he rolls over onto his side, facing his closet, and waits for Kurt to come back.

Kurt always comes back.

Kurt pulls back the comforter when he returns and slides underneath it, scooting across the mattress on his side until he’s curled up next to Blaine, their knees knocking together. He reaches for one of Blaine’s hands and tangles their fingers together, quiet for a moment. “So,” he ventures, “how do you feel?”

“I feel fantastic,” Blaine laughs, echoing Kurt’s earlier words.

The corner of Kurt’s mouth twitches, almost like he wants to smile. “I’m being serious,” he says, not sounding serious at all. “I mean -- what do you think?”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at him, amused. “Are you asking for a performance review?”

“No,” Kurt laughs, batting his shoulder playfully. “I just want to know what you think of it, now that you’ve done it.”

Blaine closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Kurt’s fingers tangled with his own. “I like it,” he admits quietly. “And maybe that sounds… I don’t know, simplistic or something. But it’s how I feel. I like it. I like -- I like the way your skin feels again mine,” he says airily, fingers twitching in Kurt’s grasp. “I like the way it feels when you touch me. I like the way you shiver under my touch. I like -- I like being in control, but I also like _not_ being in control, which is really rare for me.” He opens his eyes and finds Kurt smiling, eyes sparkling. “I like being close to you,” Blaine murmurs, scooting in a little closer. “And, you know, it feels _really_ good.”

Kurt’s smile grows into a grin. “Enough to make you want to do it again?”

“Definitely,” Blaine chuckles, grinning back.

“Do you have any requests for next time?” Kurt asks. “Any preferences or anything like that?”

Blaine shrugs amicably. “I kind of want to try a little bit of everything with you,” he says. “If you’re still willing.”

“Definitely,” Kurt parrots. “But -- you have to have _some_ preferences? Some fantasies? Things you really, really want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine defers awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I mean, I guess -- I guess I imagine us doing it the other way around.”

Kurt leans in close, lips barely an inch away from Blaine’s. “You want me to fuck you?” he whispers against Blaine’s skin.

Blaine lets out a slight whimper and nods. He _cannot_ get hard again this fast. “And I really just want your dick in my mouth,” he confesses breathlessly.

Kurt presses his lips against Blaine’s cheek and smiles. “I think I can arrange that.”

In, out, and Blaine pulls away to try and concentrate, a little dizzy at the thought. “Like I said, though, I’m kind of up for anything at least once.”

“Twist my arm,” Kurt teases. “So, overall -- a pretty good loss of virginity?”

“Phenomenal,” Blaine assures him, laughing into a kiss. “It could have been really awkward or uncomfortable and it wasn’t, not really. Thank you for that.”

“Well, thank _you_ for the glowing review,” Kurt sighs dramatically.

Blaine rolls his eyes. “Okay, smartass, since you obviously know how I lost _my_ virginity, you get to tell me the story of how you lost yours. Fair’s fair.”

Kurt rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, contemplating. Blaine misses the warmth of his body, but their hands, at least, are still linked together. “God, how long ago was that -- ten years ago? Oh god, I lost my virginity a _decade_ ago. I’m getting so old.”

“Well, you are going to be thirty in three years,” Blaine reminds him.

“And you aren’t far behind,” Kurt throws back. “I was seventeen.”

“Seems like a popular age to lose one’s virginity,” Blaine remarks.

“You’d be surprised at how few people lose their virginity as teenagers,” Kurt says. “I’ve come across more people who don’t have sex until they’re in their twenties.”

“You can’t distract me with statistics,” Blaine laughs. “Tell me the story.”

“There’s not that much to tell,” Kurt sighs, shrugging. “I went to a summer camp that year. It was --”

“Kurt, I swear to god, if you say you got some summer loving, I _will_ break out into song.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Kurt laughs, curling back onto his side. “You know,” he muses, “it actually wasn’t all that different from this. I lost my virginity in the middle of the afternoon, too.” Blaine bites his lip to keep from commenting. “ _What_?”

Blaine has to take a couple of very measured, careful breaths to keep from laughing. “So you’d say you had some afternoon delight?”

“ _Incorrigible_ ,” Kurt gasps, but they’re both laughing into the kiss that he initiates. Blaine enjoys his afterglow even more than Kurt’s, because it reminds him of the ease with which they’d become friends in the beginning. There’s still the inherent level of comfort and familiarity between them, still the playful teasing and warm glances and soft touches. Blaine feels more than just taken care of or protected.

He feels loved.

He maneuvers them so that Kurt is on his back again and Blaine is curled half on top of him, toes dragging up Kurt’s calf. He rests his chin on Kurt’s chest and links both sets of fingers together, content and happy. “Wait,” he says slowly. “You lost your virginity at summer camp in the middle of the afternoon? Didn’t someone see you or walk in on you or something?”

Kurt’s lips twist into a smile and he shakes his head. “Everyone else was out doing other activities,” he explains. “We took advantage of the empty cabin.”

“Were you a camper or a counselor?”

Kurt wrinkles his nose adorably. “Does it sound bad if I tell you the truth and say counselor?”

“Oh my god,” Blaine laughs. “Where were your campers?”

“They were swimming!” Kurt says defensively. “There was a lifeguard on duty. It’s not like they weren’t being supervised by a responsible adult.”

“Clearly,” Blaine teases dryly. “All of the irresponsible authority figures were having sex in an empty cabin.”

“People make stupid decisions when they’re teenagers, okay?” Kurt snaps, but again, there’s no malice behind it, especially not with the way his mouth twists into a smile.

“A friend of mine said the same thing once,” Blaine muses. “But I don’t think it’s necessarily true.”

“Really?” Kurt drawls. “How so?”

“I think people make stupid decisions,” Blaine reasons. “It doesn’t matter what age you are.”

“That is… definitely true,” Kurt sighs.

Blaine moves his head so that his cheek rests against Kurt’s chest. “I’m trying to make better ones,” he says quietly, wrapping his free arm over Kurt’s stomach. “Thank you,” he adds, “for earlier. Thank you for letting me pause instead of stopping outright. Thank you for letting it be my choice.”

“Well, when I was trying to make all of the decisions, I made some pretty stupid ones,” Kurt argues reasonably. “Leaving you to make your own is clearly the better option.”

“Clearly,” Blaine says, smiling against Kurt’s skin. “It means you’re making better decisions, too.” Kurt squeezes his hand in reply, and Blaine angles his head to look up at him.

In the stardust of Kurt’s eyes, Blaine finds his voice.

He’ll have to tell Marley that he’s ready to use it.

* * * * *


	11. August

** August **

_Sunday, 9 August 2020_

Blaine curls his toes and nuzzles his cheek against Kurt’s chest, eyes slipping shut. Kurt curls an arm around his shoulders and lets out a pleased noise. “Perfect way to unwind after work,” he sighs.

Blaine angles his head up and opens his eyes to look at Kurt, arching an eyebrow. “Really?” he laughs. “Even with that awkward moment when --”

“Even then,” Kurt says, smiling.

“I still don’t know how my foot got into that position.”

“Me either,” Kurt laughs. “It was very… flexible of you. But believe it or not, it helped release some tension. It was… a long day. And it added some variety into the mix. I’m starting to feel kind of bad about popping in for afternoon delight.”

“Oh my god,” Blaine laughs, burying his face into Kurt’s chest.

“You started it!” Kurt defends, but he’s laughing too, and the sound vibrates all through his chest and into Blaine’s skin. “It’s just -- it’s usually the only time I have, when I’m working. I wish I could stay the night, sometimes, because that would make things easier and add some variety, but I get up so _early_.”

Blaine lifts his head and bites back a smile. “You know,” he ventures innocently, “you could just… stay for another round.”

“Oh god,” Kurt groans, running a hand over his face. “I need food before I can even _think_ about having sex again.”

“Okay,” Blaine agrees. “So stay for dinner, and then we can go for round two after. That’s technically evening sex, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Kurt says, lips twisting into an amused smile.

Kurt tugs Blaine up for a sweet kiss that fuses into another, and another, and after a few moments, Blaine finally manages to tear himself away to press his lips against Kurt’s ear. “Are you sure about that?” he whispers, trying not to laugh.

Kurt whines a little but nods, sighing a little dejectedly. “I need at least twenty minutes.”

Blaine pulls back and surveys his face for a minute before grinning. “I can work with twenty minutes,” he says, and dives back down for more kisses. His lips barely brush against Kurt’s, though, when --

_*knock knock*_

“Don’t answer that,” Kurt murmurs against his lips, trying to tug him closer.

Reluctantly, Blaine pulls back and props himself up on his hands. “You still need twenty minutes,” Blaine reminds him, teasing.

Kurt closes his eyes and heaves a great sigh. “Fine,” he mutters.

Blaine smiles as he presses a quick kiss to Kurt’s lips. “I’ll be right back,” he promises. He rolls out of bed and haphazardly throws his clothes back on, still tugging his shirt on as he hurries through the living room. He hopes he can get rid of whoever it is fairly quickly so that he doesn’t keep Kurt waiting long, regardless of whether Kurt needs twenty minutes or a meal before round two. Blaine reaches for the door handle in the kitchen before pausing, realizing that his fly’s still undone. Zipper up, button done, and Blaine opens the door.

“Mom,” he says, voice a little embarrassingly high. “Dad. Um --”

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says brightly, crossing the threshold and dropping a kiss to his cheek before moving past him into the kitchen. “We brought ingredients for dinner,” she announces, setting multiple bags down onto the kitchen island.

“And maybe some extras for an apple pie,” his father adds, patting his arm as he passes Blaine into the apartment. “You know, sans the secret ingredient, whatever it is.”

Blaine grips the edge of the door for a minute, caught off guard and flustered, before he finally manages to pull himself together and close the door. “Um, okay, that’s -- I’d have to put that in the oven, first, if you wanted that tonight, but --”

“We just wanted to thank you for taking us out to dinner,” his mother says warmly, unpacking the bags. “And to make sure you’re still doing okay.”

“Oh,” his father interjects, prying the refrigerator open, “I talked to your Aunt Adrienne. She said she’d be more than happy to make room for you at the reunion. She’s really looking forward to seeing you.”

“That’s… great,” Blaine sighs distractedly, watching his mother start to wash vegetables in his sink. “But I --”

“What’s the matter?” his mother asks, worry filling the lines in her faces. “Did you forget we were coming?”

“No,” Blaine insists. “I mean, yes, but, no. It’s just --”

“Blaine,” Kurt’s voice calls, and oh god, it’s coming closer, “is it okay if I --”

And before Blaine can stop it, Kurt is there, standing in the kitchen with Blaine and his parents.

In an undershirt and his boxer briefs.

And sex-ruffled hair and there’s a faint red mark on Kurt’s neck where Blaine had been sucking on his skin earlier and Blaine can still kind of see the outline of Kurt’s dick in his underwear and oh _god_ , Kurt’s face is bright red and his mother looks completely surprised and she’s got a _knife_ in her hand and his father looks like he’s trying not to laugh and what is Blaine supposed to _do_?

In, out, and Blaine defaults to manners.

“This is, um -- this is Kurt Hummel,” he introduces awkwardly, gesturing in Kurt’s direction. “Kurt, these… are my parents.”

“Hello,” Kurt greets faintly, waving awkwardly.

It takes Blaine’s mother a minute before she can bring herself to say anything. “I didn’t realize you had company,” she says, unable to tear her gaze away from Kurt.

“Oh, it’s -- don’t worry about it,” Kurt dismisses. “I did kind of drop in unannounced.”

Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile. “You usually do.” Kurt gives him a _look_ , teasing and a little flirtatious and not at all actually annoyed. “I, um -- I’m sorry,” Blaine adds after a moment. “I -- after you showed up, I kind of forgot they were coming. They usually come over for lunch or dinner every other Sunday.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt assures him, eyes darting back over to Blaine’s parents. “I, um -- I’m just… going to go get dressed,” he laughs awkwardly.

Blaine’s pretty sure Kurt can’t get out of the room fast enough.

In, out, and Blaine forces himself to meet his parents’ eyes.

“I didn’t know -- I didn’t realize that you were… seeing someone,” she says after a moment, eyes still a little widened in surprise.

“Sex, she means she didn’t realize you had a sexual relationship with someone,” his father supplies dryly, ignoring his wife’s hissed _William_. “Although I’m not sure how that’s going to work out for you since it looks like we’ve frightened him off.”

“We did not _frighten him off_ ,” Blaine’s mother snaps.

“You’re wielding a knife, Mom,” Blaine points out.

“I am _not_ wielding a knife!” she says defensively, seemingly unaware that she is, in fact, waving the knife around in the air.

“You kind of are, actually,” Blaine’s father points out, nodding toward it.

“Oh, shut up, William,” she grumbles, but she sets the knife down and visibly relaxes into a smile as her husband presses an affectionate kiss to her cheek as he passes by her on his way to the other side of the kitchen. She’s instantly alert again, though, once Kurt walks back into the kitchen, fully dressed in uniform but still blushing.

“I’m just going to… head out,” Kurt says slowly, moving toward where his shoes are by the front door. “It was nice meeting you --”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Blaine’s mother says, a little too quickly.

“Subtle, Annabelle,” his father chuckles.

She ignores him. “We’re having halibut with some risotto and a vegetable medley.”

“You don’t have to stay if it makes you uncomfortable,” Blaine interjects, dropping his voice a little.

Kurt glances around the kitchen, from Blaine’s father to his mother back to Blaine again. He still seems severely embarrassed but he also seems to be considering it. His face relaxes into something a little fond and warm before he asks, “Do you want me to?”

And _oh_ , that’s unexpected. Blaine hadn’t thought he’d have a choice in sorting out this whole awkward mess. The dinner invitation doesn’t surprise him, but Kurt’s willingness to stay and face the music does, though Blaine’s not sure he can explain why, exactly. So he takes a minute to think about it, to think about what the rest of the night might be like with or without Kurt here. Blaine’s sure to have to suffer through a line of questioning from his parents, regardless. The idea of Kurt sitting through it with him makes Blaine both relieved and anxious. This isn’t how he’d wanted to tell his parents about Kurt, but then again, Blaine’s been learning to deal with unpredictability and lack of control. In a way, Blaine has technically already met Kurt’s parents. This would really only be fair, but at the same time, Blaine worries that he’s subjecting Kurt to an uncomfortable evening. He doesn’t -- he doesn’t want Kurt to be here if Kurt doesn’t want to be here. Then again, Kurt probably wouldn’t be volunteering to stay if he didn’t want to at least a little bit. Blaine _wants_ to tell his parents about Kurt, he does, and here, now, Blaine has the control over some of what happens tonight.

Blaine reaches out for Kurt’s hand. “I want you to,” he says warmly. “Stay.”

Kurt offers him a hesitant smile and abandons his shoes by the door. “Thank you,” he says politely, turning his attention to Blaine’s parents. “Um, what -- is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, no,” Blaine’s mother dismisses, looking rather pleased with herself. “You just pull up a stool and let us do the work. You’re our guest.”

“This is Blaine’s apartment,” his father points out.

“Start on the fish, William,” she requests, side-eyeing him. “Now,” she sighs, looking back over at Kurt with what Blaine guesses is supposed to be a friendly smile, “tell us about you, Kurt. What do you do for a living?” Kurt blinks in surprise, glancing down awkwardly at his uniform before shifting his gaze over to Blaine.

“Oh god,” Blaine’s father chuckles, resting his forehead against one of the higher cabinet doors. “I may have to find the nearest liquor store if I’m going to get through the rest of the evening.”

“No way,” Blaine says firmly, taking one of the bags off of the island to start on the pie. “If I have to sit through this evening sober, so do you.”

“But you _can’t_ drink,” his father argues.

“And tonight, neither can you,” Blaine says firmly.

“I work for the NYPD,” Kurt cuts in, clearly trying to ease some of the tension and refocus the conversation.

“Hummel,” Blaine’s father says, glancing over at him. “You’re Burt’s kid.”

“Yeah,” Kurt affirms, looking at Blaine’s father a little curiously.

“It’s just -- I remember his name came up a few times when they were talking about a new commissioner,” Blaine’s father explains.

“Oh, yeah,” Kurt says, coloring a little. “I don’t know that he would’ve ever done it, though. I don’t think he ever really wanted it.”

“Do you?” Blaine’s father inquires curiously.

“That’s a little personal, William,” Blaine’s mother chastises.

Blaine bites his tongue in an effort not to make a catty remark and focuses on clearing out some counter space for him to work. He’s going to have to ask his mother to move away from the island, eventually, if he’s going to get his pie crust rolled out. Three people trying to prepare and cook and maneuver around his tiny kitchen is really too many, and with the addition of the interrogation of his boyfriend, Blaine feels a little stifled and suffocated.

In, out, and Kurt helps him.

“It’s okay,” Kurt laughs, settling in a little comfortably onto one of the stools next to the island. “I have ideas about moving forward in my career but becoming commissioner isn’t among them.”

“So how did you two meet?” Blaine’s mother inquires, eyes bright with interest.

Kurt hesitates and glances over at Blaine, looking for permission. Blaine smiles a little at him before moving his supplies over to the island. “Switch,” he requests, nudging his mother’s hip with his own. “I need the space for my dough.”

“Blaine,” his father says plaintively, even as she moves over to the counter, “it’s a perfectly legitimate question.”

“I know,” he says, catching Kurt’s eye over the island. “I actually need the space to make the crust for the pie.”

“So you’re okay with telling them about the bar and everything?” Kurt checks, dropping his voice.

“I am,” Blaine assures him. “Are you?” Kurt smiles and nods, propping his head up on his hand and watching Blaine work. “Do you, um -- do you remember the day Cooper took me outside?” he asks, addressing his parents. “After Thanksgiving?”

“Of course we do,” his mother says gently.

“Wait,” his father says slowly, turning to face them. “You helped him home.”

“I did,” Kurt says kindly.

Blaine’s father looks over at him with an arched eyebrow and an amused expression. “I’d say this is a little more than friendship, Blaine.”

“I wasn’t deliberately keeping it from you,” Blaine says, knowing it’s what his mother is going to say before she actually says it. In, out, and Kurt reaches out to brush his fingers across the back of Blaine’s flour-dusted hand. “There was so _much_ that I wanted to tell you, and Kurt… kind of requires a whole separate conversation.”

“And, technically,” Kurt adds, clearly trying to prevent an argument before it starts, “we’ve only been seeing each other, officially, since February.”

Blaine grins at him. “After a date that I didn’t know was a date until about the last five minutes.”

“Yeah, well,” Kurt hums, running his thumb over Blaine’s knuckles, “I like to think my intentions are a little clearer now.”

“I’ll say,” Blaine’s father mutters.

“Do you mind taking my father into the dining room with you to set the table?” Blaine requests dryly. “He’s not allowed to know what the secret ingredient is in my apple pie.”

“Damn it,” his father grumbles, knowing his cover’s blown. “I was _this_ close.”

“Taking it to my grave,” Blaine says in a sing-song voice as his father and Kurt gather dishes to carry out into the living room. Kurt leans in and catches him off-guard with a kiss before he leaves the kitchen with Blaine’s father in tow. Blaine smiles a little stupidly after him until his mother sits down across from him in the now unoccupied bar stool. “Go ahead,” Blaine sighs, turning his attention back to the pie and sneaking a taste of his secret ingredient. “I know there are a million things you want to say.”

“Does he know?” is the first question out of her mouth, and Blaine’s not sure why it takes him by surprise, but it does.

“Yes,” he answers quietly. “I told him back in May. And in case you forgot, Mom, he met me in the middle of a really bad panic attack. I think that clued him in a little bit.”

“And he’s… okay with everything?” she asks tentatively.

Blaine’s a little more reluctant with his next answer, but he nods and continues to compose his pie, grateful for the distraction that keeps his hands busy. “He is -- we had some issues over a few things, but we’re fine, now.”

“Like what?” Blaine inhales sharply and flexes his hands. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just… trying to understand how you both got to this point.”

In, out, and Blaine relaxes a little. He can give his mother, this, at least. He can give her understanding. “Do you remember when you and I weren’t speaking? Remember how frustrated I was because you were hovering and coddling and smothering me?”

“Did he do the same thing?”

“Not exactly,” Blaine sighs, hiding the secret ingredient under the island top from his mother. He doesn’t trust her not to tell his father, especially not after a couple of glasses of wine. “But it all kind of came down to the same point, which was that I needed to be able to make my own decisions, and I needed the people I care about to trust me enough to make them.”

His mother is quiet for a moment, and her voice is barely above a whisper when she finally asks, “Do you love him?”

Blaine pauses for a moment, trying to buy some time while he thinks about the best way to answer her question. A simple ‘yes’ would probably suffice, but he wants his mother -- his parents to understand his relationship with Kurt. Blaine washes his hands in the sink and preheats the oven before cleaning up the excess mess. He settles back in front of the island and perches on one of the other stools across from her, finally bringing himself to meet her eyes. “You laughed a lot more when I was little,” he says, and she looks so startled by the observation that she doesn’t actually say anything in response. “I remember Dad making you laugh. And as a kid, I remember thinking that was what love looked like. If someone can bring that kind of joy into your life, of course you would love them.

“Kurt makes me laugh, Mom. It’s so _easy_ to be around him. He makes me laugh and he laughs at my stupid jokes and shares my love for music. He -- he makes me feel so _loved_ , Mom. He makes me feel safe. And he reminded me that I could be so much more than what I was. He made me want to try, Mom, but he let me do it on my own.”

There’s such _affection_ in his mother’s eyes, mingled with something else Blaine can’t quite identify, and she has to clear her throat before she can speak again. “Does he make you happy?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Blaine says emphatically. “He does.”

She reaches over and pats his hand in a motherly-like fashion before pushing herself to her feet. “Then that makes me happy.”

Blaine feels a warmness in the pit of his stomach and is content to stay with her in the kitchen in silence for a little while longer while he finishes preparing everything for the pie. Once the pie’s ready to go in the oven, he washes his hands again and surveys his mother as he dries his hands, watching her finish the rest of the prep work. “You’re handling the risotto, right?” he asks. “Dad always manages to screw it up, though I don’t know _how_. We’ve both taught him a million times.”

She smiles over at him. “I know it may seem like out of the two of us, I’m the one who has to be… handled, Blaine, but believe me, your father requires some handling, too. I’ve got this.”

He returns the smile and leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you,” he says softly. “And -- I’m really looking forward to spending time with you at the reunion again.”

“Yes, well,” she says, a flush creeping onto her cheeks. “You should probably go rescue your boyfriend from your father.”

“Oh, please,” Blaine laughs. “You were the one interrogating him earlier.”

“I am merely trying to get to know my son’s boyfriend,” she says, poking him in the stomach. “And to be fair, Blaine, your father and I never really got to do this when you were a teenager.”

“Twenty-five,” Blaine reminds her, “not fourteen. And you got to do it to Cooper when he was a teenager.”

“Your brother had girls in and out of the house so fast that your father and I hardly got a name and a glimpse of a face by the time we even knew they were there,” his mother laughs. “I’m kind of proud of the fact that I got Kurt to stay for dinner.”

“I know you are,” Blaine says dryly. “I think I’m going to go rescue him.”

“Okay,” she says, turning her attention back to the food, “but remember, we have an entire dinner in front of us. And dessert.”

“At least there’s no wine,” Blaine mutters, which earns him another poke to the stomach.

Still, he feels decidedly more relaxed when he enters the dining room and finds his father and Kurt laughing. His parents mean well, he knows that, and Kurt is taking their obvious prying in stride. The evening could be going a lot worse. “You can go back into the kitchen,” Blaine announces to his father. “Mom’s been instructed to keep your hands out of the risotto.”

“You make it sound like I can’t do anything right,” his father complains, affronted.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Kurt reassures him, looking directly at Blaine. “I’m very familiar with the proof that you’re capable of doing something right.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Blaine’s father says pointedly. He starts to make his way back into the kitchen before pausing next to Blaine and resting a hand on his shoulder. “You know, I like him.”

Blaine rolls his eyes and waits until his father is back in the kitchen to cross the room to where Kurt is leaning against the table. “So,” Blaine drawls, snaking his hands around Kurt’s waist, “is it your plan to just charm the pants off of my parents?”

“Mmhm,” Kurt hums, sliding his hands up Blaine’s chest to rest on Blaine’s shoulders. “I have to make up for the fact that they met me while I was in my underwear _somehow_ , Blaine.”

Blaine groans and rests his forehead against Kurt’s. “I _am_ sorry about that. You were kind of all over me when you got here earlier. I was kind of distracted.”

“I do seem to have a problem keeping my hands off of you,” Kurt sighs. “Speaking of, are we still on for round two later after your parents leave?”

Blaine lifts his head back a little, amused. “Are you willing to stay that late?”

“It has been more than twenty minutes,” Kurt reminds him.

Blaine grins. “Deal.” He nudges Kurt’s nose with his own affectionately and softens a little. “Thank you,” he adds softly, “for staying and meeting my parents.”

“You met mine.”

Blaine’s smile falters a little. “ _Kurt_ \--”

But Kurt presses his fingers against Blaine’s lips to silence him and shakes his head. “Just -- I need you to understand this, okay? You’re kind of the only family I’ve got, Blaine. If your family is important to you, then they’re important to me, too.” And _oh_ , there’s the confirmation Blaine didn’t know he was waiting for, the one that tells him that he gives Kurt a real sense of family, too. Blaine removes Kurt’s fingers from his lips and leans forward to kiss him, soft and sweet and slow. Kurt licks his lips when he pulls away, eyes a little distant and concentrated. “Salted caramel,” he says slowly.

Blaine blinks in surprise before glancing over his shoulder at the door to the kitchen. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses, turning his attention back to his now-grinning boyfriend. “My father is _not_ allowed to know that. I won’t even tell my mother what it is because I know he can get it out of her if he gives her two glasses of wine.”

“I would _love_ to see your mother after she’s had two glasses of wine,” Kurt laughs.

“Let’s see if you can handle her sober, first,” Blaine says dryly.

“She seems… nice, if maybe a little, entirely obvious,” Kurt offers, reaching up to tuck a curl that’s sprung loose behind Blaine’s ear.

Blaine shakes his head in amusement and pulls Kurt closer, tucking his chin over Kurt’s shoulder. “I love you,” he sighs.

“Well, I would hope so,” Kurt murmurs into his ear, rubbing Blaine’s back a little clumsily. “You are trusting me with your secret ingredient.”

“Clearly the real testament of my love,” Blaine mumbles, hugging him a little tighter.

With Kurt’s arms around him and his eyes on the city outside of his window, Blaine realizes that the pieces he’s been collecting all year make up the portrait of his family.

* * * * *

_Monday, 17 August 2020_

Blaine carries both of his cameras -- old and new -- into the kitchen of his aunt and uncle’s house, hoping to find some solitude and decaffeinated tea. He pauses at the threshold when he sees his Aunt Adrienne standing in the middle of the kitchen, putting away the rest of the clean dishes. “Hi,” he greets quietly.

She looks up at him as she closes a cabinet and throws the hand towel over her shoulder. “Hi,” she says, smiling. “Did you need something?”

“I was hoping to make some tea,” Blaine admits, “but I didn’t know if you had decaf or not.”

“Have a seat,” she invites, grabbing the tea kettle. “I was thinking of making some for myself, anyway.”

“Thank you,” he says, setting his cameras down on the tiny kitchen table and sinking down into a chair.

“How was today?” she asks, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove. “Being around everyone after so long away?”

“Okay,” he sighs, trying to get comfortable. “It was the first day with everyone really _here_ , you know? It’s been so long that I feel like we’re all different people, now. I feel like we’re stilling getting reacquainted.”

“It must be strange,” she remarks, fetching some tea bags. “You and your cousins are all adults, now. You haven’t seen most of them since they were kids. Your cousin Gina just had a baby last week.”

“Is that why she’s not here?” Blaine inquires.

Adrienne nods. “It’s also why you have that room to yourself. She was going to come on her own so that her husband didn’t have to take time off work before the baby arrived, but Anderson babies do tend to be early. Well, that, and your brother said he’s pretty sure he’s not going to make it.”

Blaine shifts uncomfortably at the mention of his brother and tries to change the subject. “Aunt Adrienne, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did my parents -- did they ever give the family an excuse for why we haven’t to the last two reunions?” he asks carefully.

She leans against the counter and surveys him a little curiously. “Your father had his appendix removed, last time,” she remembers.

“Right,” Blaine says faintly. “And… the time before that?”

The spark in her eyes dims, and the tea kettle whistles.

She knows.

“I don’t know about the rest of the family,” she says, “but Jack and I knew why, yes.”

In, out, and Blaine drops his gaze to the table. He’s not -- he’s not _ashamed_ , and he feels more comfortable around Aunt Adrienne than he does most of the rest of his extended relatives, but it’s still a little jarring to know that she knows. She’s known for a long time, apparently, and Blaine’s not quite sure what to make of it. “I wasn’t sure if they’d said anything,” he mumbles. “It was difficult for us to talk about in our immediate family. I couldn’t imagine them telling anyone without it being uncomfortable for them.”

Adrienne sets both mugs full of steaming water and tea bags on the table, and Blaine looks up to see both sugar and honey at his disposal. “Your father takes his tea with both,” she explains. “I thought you might, too.”

“I do,” Blaine affirms, a little surprised. “Thank you.”

She toys with the tag attached to the string on the tea bag and doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know that your parents used to have a difficult time talking about it with you,” she says quietly. “But just because your father didn’t talk to you about it doesn’t mean he didn’t talk about it.” She looks up and smiles when she sees his surprised expression. “It’s a twin thing. Your father and I call each other every week. It’s easy to talk to someone you’ve been sharing secrets with your entire life.”

Blaine toys with his tea bag for a minute before removing it and reaching for the honey. “How much do you know?”

“Everything up until Will called to tell me you wanted to come to the reunion,” she admits. “Or at least everything he knew. Your father, bless him, has never been very good at communication.”

“Other than with you, you mean,” Blaine quips dryly.

“Twin thing,” she says again. “I know that things were hard for you, Blaine, but they were hard on your parents, too.”

“I know that my parents have taken prodigiously good care of me, Aunt Adrienne,” he sighs. ‘I don’t particularly want to be given a guilt trip right now.”

“I’m not trying to give you a guilt trip,” she defends. In, out, and Blaine cannot make assumptions. “Your parents have never been very good at sharing how they feel with you. I know they’re trying to be better about it now, but how they’ve felt the last ten years or so is information I have and you don’t. I just thought you might want me to share it with you. I know they’re making an effort to try and improve communication with you.”

In some ways, Adrienne really reminds him of Tracie.

It feels… strange to have his aunt know this much about his life and his relationship with his parents when he hasn’t been the one to tell her. He’s felt so disconnected from his extended family and the life he’d had before Sadie Hawkins that it’s still taking some getting used to being around them again. They don’t know him, not who he is now, but they have memories of who he used to be. If Blaine’s going to forge any sort of connection with them again, he has to start sharing pieces of the person he is now, and it’s only fair that he takes the pieces they give him in return.

He still hasn’t really give his parents the chance to change his perception of them.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly, taking a sip of his tea.

“I think Will’s starting to realize that they did what they could,” she says gently. “I mean, they’re your parents, Blaine. It’s their job to take care of you.”

“But it’s not,” Blaine says for what feels like the millionth time. “Not anymore.”

“And I think he gets that now,” Adrienne says. “He’s always been a little… oblivious. He tends to make things about him a lot of the time when it really isn’t. I think your brother got that from him.”

Blaine looks down into his cup of tea and fidgets uncomfortably. “I think I might have, too.”

“You’re not your brother, Blaine,” Adrienne says softly, and _oh_ , the words go right to Blaine’s heart. He looks back up at her, grateful and a little touched, but she doesn’t give him the chance to say anything. “I don’t -- I don’t know what type of person you are, now. I get second-hand accounts from your parents, but I haven’t really gotten to know you myself. But believe me when I say that no matter how hard you may have tried to be like or outshine your brother when you were little, you aren’t him. Your parents -- your mother in particular -- worked very hard to make sure of that.”

Blaine wrinkles his brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

His aunt props her head up on her hand and leaves her tea untouched. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Blaine, but your brother is a little… impulsive.”

Blaine’s mouth twists into an unpleasant smile. “I would’ve gone with reckless, but we can stick with impulsive.”

“Reckless is probably the more accurate description,” she sighs. “He’s never really given all that much thought to how his words or actions might affect someone else. He doesn’t think about other people’s feelings all that much. He’s not _unkind_ , Blaine, but that’s kind of what makes it so much worse. Cooper doesn’t mean to be like that. He just sort of haphazardly makes his way through life and doesn’t notice the damage he inflicts along the way. He’s kind of… blissfully unaware.”

“I’m familiar with Cooper’s hurricane of destruction,” Blaine says dryly.

“So are your parents,” Adrienne points out. “Your brother’s ten years older than you. You were still in elementary school when he left for California. You probably didn’t realize how much your parents worried about him, especially your mother. She worried herself sick thinking about what he might do when he first moved to California. It would’ve been so easy for him to get involved with the wrong crowd or to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She knew that, and I think she felt like it was her fault. She felt like she’d indulged him too much.”

“Cooper’s kind of beyond anyone’s control.”

“That’s why she tried so hard with you,” Adrienne explains. “I think she felt like if she could just… make you functional, if she could help shape you into someone different, someone more responsible, that it’d balance out the damage Cooper might cause. She didn’t want anyone else getting hurt because of her mistakes.”

Blaine feels his heart sink to the pit of his stomach, and he pushes his cup of tea away, unable to stomach anymore. “But someone did get hurt,” he says thickly. “ _Me._ ”

“I know, Blaine,” she says gently. She reaches out to touch his arm but seems to think better of it and pulls her hand away. “That’s what made it so much worse. Anna was so focused on trying to protect everyone else that she didn’t think about protecting you, and then when they both finally _tried_ , it was too late. And your father -- he just… kind of felt like he’d failed you as a parent.”

Blaine leans back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling. He feels like his parents make so much more sense to him now, even if the account is coming second-hand. He feels like -- he feels like he’s starting to understand who they are as people outside of the perception he has of them as their son, and it makes him feel… a lot older than fourteen.

Maybe his perception of his parents has been a little out-of-date, too.

But things are changing, like they have been since November, and Blaine remembers the way his parents had reacted when he’d met them for dinner last month. He remembers his father standing up for him, remembers his father’s apology for being a little self-absorbed. He remembers the look of dawning clarity on his father’s face when he’d realized that Blaine had wanted something a little more tangible to offer them but didn’t necessarily need their commendation.

He remembers his father giving it to him anyway.

_We’re very proud of you._

_It’s nice to be needed_ , his mother had said.

The thing is, Blaine doesn’t need her. He’s not a child anymore. But things are better between them now, or at least they’re starting to be. He realizes, now, that his insistence on being treated like an adult, that his efforts to have a better, healthier relationship with her may be helping her as much as it’s been helping him.

And with striking clarity, Blaine remembers what he’d said to Tracie during their last session last year, just before he’d started going outside again.

_I can’t help anyone if I can’t help myself._

His mother has tried so hard to help him.

He’s helped her, instead.

And that feels… really, really good.

“I’m sorry,” Adrienne says quietly, snapping him out of his reverie. “I know we haven’t seen each other in a long time and I’m just kind of dumping all of this on you --”

“It’s okay,” Blaine sighs, sitting up straight and reaching for his tea again. “I needed to hear it.”

Adrienne offers him a small smile. “Well, the bright side of all of this is that you’re here, now, and you being here means that your parents, bless them, don’t have to speak for you. You get to be the one to reintroduce yourself. So,”she sighs, leaning back in her chair and smiling a little wider. “Hit me. You’re still into photography?” she asks, nodding toward the cameras he’d set on the table earlier.

He smiles at her gratefully before glancing over at the cameras. “Yeah, I, uh -- I didn’t really have use for it, for a long time, but I picked it up again over Christmas. I -- I brought both in case Dad felt like getting into it again while we were here.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” she observes. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. He tells me you’re still making music.”

Blaine nods. “Yeah, I’m -- if he’s kept you up to date on everything up until he called to ask for permission, I’m assuming he told you about Marley.”

“He did.”

“It’s been… interesting,” he says. “I’ve been having to push myself a little, musically. It’s not normally what I do, but she’s been lovely to work with. She has a live performance next month that she asked me to make an appearance at.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“I’m… kind of nervous about it,” Blaine admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I haven’t performed in public in a long time.”

“Would you like some advice?” she offers.

“Sure,” he laughs.

“Channel your inner child,” she advises. “I know it seems like Cooper hogged the spotlight, Blaine, but you sure figured out how to steal it.”

“I don’t want to steal the spotlight from her, Aunt Adrienne,” he chuckles.

“Well, you were always better at sharing than your brother,” she sighs. “I think you’ll be okay. I’d love to hear you play, while you’re here.”

“Okay,” he agrees amicably. “I might even be convinced to make some of my famous apple pie while I’m here.”

“Yes,” she gasps. “God, your father will not shut up about that pie. He complains about the fact that he hasn’t figured out your secret ingredient on a monthly basis.”

Blaine’s mouth twists into a smile. “You’re not getting it out of me,” he warns. “I won’t even tell my mother. I’m sure as hell not telling his twin sister.”

“Oh, I’m not asking you to,” she laughs. “Believe me, I love that you’re keeping him in the dark. Keep some mystery alive.”

Blaine chuckles and looks down at the table, tracing patterns in the wood with his fingertips. “Um, let’s see, what else? Oh -- you haven’t talked to him since he asked if I could still come to the reunion, right?”

“Not the way we normally talk, no,” she affirms. “Why? Have I missed something life-changing in the last week?”

“Not exactly,” he laughs. “I, um -- I’ve been seeing someone since February. He came over last week and we got a little… preoccupied and I totally forgot about my parents coming over for dinner.”

“Oh god,” Adrienne groans. “Was it as awkward as I’m imagining it was?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, “but it actually… wasn’t that bad. You know, once he put some clothes on.”

She laughs, the sound bubbly and delighted, and even though she’s only related to Blaine’s mother by marriage, she sounds so _much_ like his mother.

Blaine wishes he could hear his mother laugh more.

“What’s his name?” Adrienne asks.

“Kurt,” Blaine answers, unable to fight back a smile.

“Kurt,” she says teasingly. “God, you should see your face. Do you have any pictures of him?”

“Um, yeah,” Blaine says distractedly, digging around in his pocket for his phone. “Let me just -- there,” he says, finally finding the photo of them he’s looking for and handing her the phone.

She looks a little surprised when she sees it, but she speaks up before he can ask anything. “He’s a police officer?”

“NYPD,” Blaine affirms, relaxing a little.

“That’s… interesting,” she says, a smile playing at her lips.

“What’s interesting?”

Blaine looks up at the sound of his father’s voice as he enters the kitchen. His father looks over his sister’s shoulder and smiles, amused. “Ah, talking about the boyfriend,” he drawls. “We met him last week.”

“What was he wearing?” Adrienne asks.

It’s a peculiar question to ask, Blaine thinks, but his father’s answer is quick and to the point. “His underwear.”

“Oh my god,” Blaine groans. “You are never going to let that go, are you?”

His father opens his mouth to answer, but Adrienne holds up a finger and offers Blaine a sly smile. “I got this. You,” she says, turning her attention to her brother, “owe me fifty bucks.”

His father looks confused for a moment before he understands her meaning, and it’s with a rather frustrated groan that he digs into his wallet and counts out the money for his sister. “You are unbelievable.”

“Do I… want to know what this is about?” Blaine asks hesitantly.

“Do _not_ \--” his father starts to protest.

“We had a bet,” Adrienne says impishly, grinning from ear to ear. “We each had our own ideas about what your type would be when you got older. I bet you’d go for men in uniform, and, clearly, I won.”

“When I grew up?” Blaine echoes. “Just how long have you had this bet?”

“ _Adrienne_ ,” his father says warningly.

“Oh, about fifteen years,” she answers, ignoring her brother.

“This cannot be normal family behavior,” Blaine mutters.

“If you find a family that’s normal, Blaine, you let me know,” Adrienne laughs.

Blaine rubs at his temple with his eyes and shakes his head a little. “I think I’m going to go to bed,” he announces. “It’s been a long day.”

Adrienne pushes herself to her feet and hands him his phone back before patting him on the shoulder. “Night, kiddo,” she says warmly. She turns her attention back to her twin and wraps her arms around his shoulders affectionately. “Want some tea?”

His father rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “Since you already have the honey and sugar out.”

“Wait,” Blaine says suddenly, reaching for his old camera. “Don’t move.” His aunt takes the request in stride and beams over at him, still clinging to her brother. His father’s face is an interesting blend of some sort of amused exasperation, and again, Blaine is reminded that his parents are people outside of who he’s perceived them as.

Through the lens of his camera, Blaine starts to look at his father a little differently.

“Thanks,” he says kindly, lowering his camera. “Is, um -- is Mom getting ready for bed?”

“Should be,” his father answers. “You doing okay?”

Blaine nods. “I just want to say goodnight to her before I take my medication and go to bed,” he explains, picking up his other camera. “Night, Dad.”

“Good night, Blaine -- Adrienne, _I swear to god_ , if you drop that ice cube down my shirt, this means war,” his father hisses, whipping around to face her.

Blaine grins to himself and totes his cameras upstairs.

His father is definitely more than just a father.

Up the stairs of his aunt and uncle’s expansive house to the second floor, down the hall to the second door on the left, Blaine knocks and waits for his mother’s permission to enter. “Come in,” she calls.

Blaine pushes open the door and smiles at the sight that greets him. His mother is perched on the stool in front of the vanity, dressed in thin, striped, linen pajama pants and a salmon-colored short-sleeved top. Her hair is swept into a side ponytail while she brushes it, and she looks so _much_ like the person he remembers from his childhood that it takes his breath away.

Instinctively, Blaine reaches for his old camera and snaps a newer photograph of his mother for his desk.

“Blaine,” she laughs, covering her face. “I’m not dressed. I don’t have even have my face on.”

Blaine sets his cameras on the bed and closes the distance between them, kneeling next to her. “Hush,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You look perfect.”

She arches an eyebrow at him curiously but resumes brushing her hair. “I take it your father’s having tea with Adrienne.”

“Possibly,” Blaine muses. “It looked like the possible start of World War III down there when I left.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a clear affection in her eyes. “I swear, it’s like every time they get together, they’re twelve years old again.” She sets the brush down on the vanity and turns to face him a little better. “Are you going to bed?”

He nods. “I just wanted to come and say good night,” he says warmly, wrapping her up in a hug, “and that I love you. And that Cooper being reckless isn’t your fault.”

She pats his back a little clumsily and pulls back, her expression telling him that he’s being about as subtle as she normally is. “You’ve been talking to Adrienne.” Blaine colors a little and looks down at the ground. She reaches for his hand and lifts his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I know that you’ve changed a lot this year, sweetheart. Your father and I still have a little catching up to do, but we’re trying.”

“I know you are.”

She hesitates for a moment before adding, “You never gave your brother the chance to try.”

Blaine narrows his eyes and pulls out of her grasp. “That’s not fair, Mom. Cooper didn’t really try.”

“Maybe not,” she sighs. “Cooper needs to be held accountable for his actions, but he needs to be told that he has to make more of an effort.”

“It’s not your responsibility,” Blaine reminds her.

“As his parent, it feels like it is,” she explains. “But I’m trying to apply what you keep reminding me of to your brother. He’s an adult. I have to treat him like one. If I can’t smother you, I can’t scold him, either.”

“So what’s your point?”

“It’s not your responsibility either,” she allows, “but you gave me a second chance.”

Blaine softens a little and rests his forehead against his mother’s knees, groaning. “And now you want me to give him one.”

“Being an adult isn’t always easy,” his mother says gently, rubbing affectionately at the back of his neck. “I suppose that’s why your father and your aunt Adrienne revert to childish antics when they’re together. It helps with the stress. They’ll probably be leading the water balloon fight later this week.”

Blaine grins against her knees before looking back up at her. “I’d forgotten about that.”

She returns his smile with ease. “You always were the little covert operator,” she laughs. “Whoever has you on their team will be extremely lucky.”

“I’ll try to make myself a useful ally,” Blaine says. “After all, this _is_ war.”

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 19 August 2020_

The reunion has interrupted Blaine’s routine, for the most part. Yesterday was the first Tuesday in a very, very long time that he hadn’t been able to have a session with Tracie, and he’d gone to bed feeling a little melancholy. When he’d woken up this morning, he’d tried to find ways to implement routine into his stay here in Maine to give himself a sense of normalcy. He’d spent part of the morning exchanging texts with Marley and part of the afternoon doing the same with Emma.

It’s still early enough that he can text Kurt tonight, before Kurt goes to bed, and with each new message, Blaine’s smile grows, feet kicking in delight under the comforter on his bed.

Even in black and white, Kurt still makes him laugh.

There’s a knock on the door just as his conversation with Kurt winds down, and it’s with one last parting _love you xo_ that Blaine sets his phone down on the nightstand and calls out, “Come in!” He looks up at the door as it opens and feels the smile disappear from his face.

Cooper.

Cooper hesitates in the doorway with his suitcase rolled up behind him. He looks a little surprised to see Blaine there, which doesn’t surprise Blaine at all. “You’re actually here,” Cooper says. “I thought Aunt A was kidding.”

“I’m here,” Blaine says thinly. “I thought you weren’t coming, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s just like you to show up halfway through the reunion.” Something like hurt flickers in Cooper’s eyes, and Blaine remembers his mother’s words to him the other night -- he needs to give Cooper a second chance.

He has to let Cooper in.

“Can I… come in?” Cooper asks. Blaine sighs and waves at the empty bed next to him before looking up at the ceiling. He hears Cooper shut the door and make his way over to the bed, hears the squeak of the mattress springs as he sits down on the bed. “Can we talk, or are you going to ignore me all week?”

In, out. “We can talk,” Blaine allows, “but you have to listen, too.”

Cooper takes the permission and immediately starts talking, words tumbling out all in a rush. “I didn’t know,” he insists. “Blainey, I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know about the anxiety or the meds or that you hadn’t been outside.”

It’s the same thing that Cooper had said in November, and while Blaine still has the same reaction to it now that he did then, he’s also learned a lot since then. And while Blaine had dismissed it before, he can’t now. Cooper’s intentions matter. “You know,” Blaine muses, looking over at him, “when you first came to me after you dragged me out, I could tell you wanted me to forgive you for it. But you didn’t ask. You never even said you were sorry.”

“That’s not -- you know, you kind of owe me an apology, too,” Cooper snaps.

Blaine sits upright immediately, incredulous. “ _Seriously_?”

“I went to go get drinks and when I came back, you were gone!” Cooper says defensively. “And it didn’t make me feel any better when Mom and Dad called later that day and explained everything over the phone. It just made me worry more. It’s why I went back to your apartment.”

“Okay, stop, stop,” Blaine cuts in. In, out, eyes closed. He does not want to be arguing with his brother this badly or this quickly. They haven’t seen each other in over eight months. They left things on a bad note. Blaine is trying to fix this, but he can’t -- he can’t make assumptions or jump to conclusions or lose his temper. He has to be calm if he wants Cooper to be calm, and if the last eight months have taught Blaine anything, it’s that he doesn’t do very well when he gets into a heated argument.

In, out.

His mother had said it wasn’t his responsibility to educate his brother.

Whether or not that’s true, Blaine kind of finds that he wants to.

He needs to.

“Okay,” he sighs, opening his eyes. “Just -- I don’t want to fight with you anymore, okay? Can we just… be adults about this? You don’t have to get so defensive. I’m not trying to attack you, Coop. I’m just trying to make you understand.”

Cooper relaxes a little, but he still looks extremely uncomfortable. “I’m not… an idiot, Blaine,” he says quietly. “I know that what I did was shitty. And I’m _sorry_ for it, I really am.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says, exhaling slowly, “for apologizing. It means a lot to me.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Cooper insists. “You know that, Squirt, don’t you?”

Blaine’s mouth twitches in annoyance at the nickname but he lets it go. “I know,” he says quietly. “Your intentions make a difference, and I’m sorry that I didn’t see that before. But --” He shifts on the bed and crosses his legs indian-style, facing his brother. “I need you to understand that just because your intentions weren’t malicious doesn’t excuse what you did. It doesn’t make it _okay_ , Cooper. I ended up hiding in the bathroom of that bar because I was having a panic attack. I didn’t know where I was or how to get home and I didn’t have my meds with me. Can you just -- can you at least _try_ to understand what it was like for me? Can you try to understand the situation you put me in? I hadn’t been outside in ten years. And I couldn’t ask you to help me.”

“Why not?”

“God, Coop, there was a good five or ten minutes when I could hardly remember my own _name_ , I was panicking so badly,” Blaine huffs. “And honestly, when you came back, I was so mad at you that I didn’t even want to try talking to you. I knew you wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m listening now,” Cooper points out quietly.

Blaine softens. “Yeah,” he acknowledges, “you are.”

Cooper shifts uncomfortably on the bed again. His discomfort makes Blaine a little uncomfortable. He’s not used to his brother being this… reserved. “Can I… ask a question?” Cooper ventures after a moment. Blaine raises an eyebrow in surprise but nods his assent. “How _did_ you get home?”

A phantom spark in Blaine’s hand, and he has to try very hard not to smile. “Someone found me in the bathroom,” he explains. “He knew how to handle a panic attack and walked me home.”

The corner of Cooper’s mouth wibbles a little, like he wants to smile but he’s afraid to. “That’s pretty decent of him,” he remarks, “you know, to help a stranger like that.”

“It took me by surprise, too,” Blaine says. “You want to know the really crazy thing, though? I’m dating him now.”

Cooper blinks rapidly, clearly caught off guard. “Wait, seriously?” he laughs.

And _there’s_ Cooper.

Blaine nods and finally lets himself smile. “A lot’s changed since you last saw me, Coop, mostly for the better. And I --” He stops short and looks down at his lap, wishing he had something to do with his hands. He thinks of his father and Aunt Adrienne and remembers the ease with which they’d teased each other the other night. He remembers his aunt’s admission that she still talked to his father on a weekly basis, _really_ talked, and Blaine finds himself longing for the same thing with his own sibling. “I’d really like to be able to share it with you.”

Cooper nudges Blaine’s knee with his foot, causing Blaine to look back up at him. “Midnight snack?” Cooper suggests. “I had lunch at like, one today, and I only had three bags of pretzels on the plane. I’m still on west coast time and I haven’t technically had dinner yet. I’m starving.”

“I’m sure there are some sort of leftovers in the kitchen,” Blaine offers, pushing himself to his feet.

Cooper moves to stand next to him and slings an arm around his shoulders. “I want to hear all about this guy and whatever else you’ve been up to before the rest of the family realizes that I’m here. I’m sure I’ll be swamped with autograph requests in the morning.”

“Naturally,” Blaine says dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Hey,” Cooper says defensively, “my movie’s coming out next month. It’s a big deal.”

“What,” Blaine laughs, “your Lifetime made-for-television movie?”

“I’m the _lead_ ,” Cooper reminds him. “I’m thinking of throwing a viewing party when it premieres.”

“You would,” Blaine deadpans.

Together, they sneak down the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. They only turn on one light and try to be as quiet as possible in opening and closing doors and cabinets. It’s not until the leftovers are in the microwave that either of them speaks again, and Cooper’s voice is barely audible over the steady hum of the microwave. “Hey, Squirt?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Cooper says, smiling weakly at him. “You know, for forgiving me.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow at him. “Technically, I didn’t say that I forgive you,” Blaine points out. At Cooper’s mildly horrified look, Blaine adds, “But don’t worry. I helped Uncle Jack fill up the water balloons tonight. I’ll just kick your ass tomorrow and then you can consider yourself forgiven.”

Cooper matches Blaine’s grin with his own. “You’re on, little brother.”

* * * * *


	12. September

** September **

_Friday, 18 September 2020_

Marley has the entire country wrapped around her finger.

She wasn’t dubbed _America’s sweetheart_ at fifteen without good reason, but it’s part of her image. She’d been presented as the girl next door when she released her first single, something Blaine is sure was an intentional move by her management and label. But the thing is, for all that Marley’s trying so _hard_ to get away from the packaging and molding, Blaine’s not sure that the title she was given wasn’t well-earned. There’s nothing _fake_ about her. It’s probably why everyone had immediately taken to her. She’s so _genuine_ in her kindness that Blaine thinks everyone probably found her kind of refreshing. He can also see how people probably think she might be an easy target. He can understand that people might mistake her kindness for naivety or weakness.

Oh, how wrong they’d be.

She’s up on that stage right now like she never left, and while Blaine has taken comfort in the fact that his place of dwelling is _home_ , the stage is clearly Marley’s. She doesn’t just fill up space -- she _commands_ it. In the wing opposite Blaine, Emma sits tucked away with Marley’s mom, hidden from view. And Marley’s mother -- _god_ , Marley’s mother has the same look in her eyes that Blaine’s mother had when he’d met her in the restaurant.

Pride.

Blaine shakes his head and follows her gaze to the audience. It’s been so long since he’s been anywhere near a stage like this, but the pre-performance feelings start to creep in with familiarity with each passing song. He remembers the excitement of finally being able to share the art he’s worked so hard on, remembers the jitters of nervous anticipation and the shared buzz of adrenaline between performers. Here, backstage, the lights aren’t nearly as blinding, and he can see the audience with more clarity than he’s guessing most on stage can. At least half of the audience is holding up cameras and phones, each lit-up screen acting as its own beacon.

In the dark, they make their own light, and Blaine finds himself drawn to it.

The audience still clearly adores her, even after her long absence, even after her treatment. She’s being honest even though she was never fake, and while it may make her feel better, Blaine’s left wondering if her new approach is affecting the way the world sees her. Does she seem like the same person to them? Does she seem… better, for lack of a better word? Does she seem stronger?

Does he?

He’s spent so _much_ of this year working on changing his perception of the world and the people in it. Kurt had been the catalyst for that, with his hands and words and kindness. And while Blaine’s view of the world is much like the audience he watches now -- full of both dark and light -- he has no idea how the rest of the world sees him. He’d wanted to be unassuming, in the beginning. He hadn’t wanted to stand out or draw attention to himself.

He’s not sure what this qualifies as. Marley had asked and Blaine had consented, but he’s not exactly looking for attention. Marley draws attention whether she wants to or not -- it’s a hazard of what she does. Blaine is willingly being pulled into that, but he doesn’t -- he doesn’t _want it_ the way he did when he was a child. He doesn’t like the idea of putting himself on a stage or in front of a camera or in the public eye. He doesn’t want to be the center of attention anymore. He doesn’t want to open himself up to potential criticism and critique and cold words.

He is twenty-five, not fourteen, and he doesn’t want to be an easy target.

This is different, though. This is -- this is supporting a friend. This is sharing his art. This is using his art to potentially help people, to have his music touch someone the way that music has touched him. And maybe, just maybe, there will be light in the dark. Maybe there will be praise instead, praise or healing or kindness. Blaine isn’t putting himself directly in the path of people the way that Marley does every day, but the second he sets foot on that stage and into that light, the opportunities to touch on the various paths people are on will only increase.

He thinks he understands Kurt’s fear of responsibility, now.

An arm around his waist and lips against his ear cause him to relax a little. “Anxious?” Kurt murmurs into his ear.

Blaine shakes his head and leans back against Kurt as Marley starts to cover a Joni Mitchell song (and oh, the ideas that gives Blaine for titles for his scrapbook). “I don’t think so,” he sighs.

“But you’re nervous.”

Blaine inhales sharply and tries not to tense up. Again, his eyes are drawn to the spots of light in the audience, and he longs to get lost among them.

In, out.

Running never solves anything.

“Don’t judge me,” Blaine says, bristling. He glances over at Kurt only to find his boyfriend looking at him with a fairly bemused smile. In, out, and Blaine relaxes, returning the smile. “Okay,” he allows, laughing slightly. “You can judge me.”

“I think it’s adorable,” Kurt laughs, nudging Blaine’s nose affectionately. “I think _you’re_ adorable.”

Blaine tries to keep his smile up, but Kurt’s gentle teasing isn’t enough to make him forget his nerves entirely. “I haven’t performed in front of an audience in a long time,” he says. “What if I forget the words?”

“Marley will remember them,” Kurt assures them.

“What if I forget how to play?”

Kurt’s arm tightens around him. “Not possible,” he says softly.

“Entirely possible,” Blaine whines plaintively. “What if I screw this up for her? What if --”

“Shh,” Kurt soothes, pressing a finger to Blaine’s lips and adjusting them so that they’re facing each other. “Here,” he says, unearthing a small box from behind his back.

Blaine can’t help the laugh that escapes him at the sight of the gift in Kurt’s hand. “What’s this?”

“A little pick-me-up,” Kurt answers vaguely. Blaine arches an eyebrow but pries the gift open without further questioning.

Inside is [a dark blue bowtie with white music notes](http://oi43.tinypic.com/fe10z5.jpg).

Blaine looks up at him and watches the pieces of Kurt and Emma click together.

Kurt smiles and plucks the tie from the box, setting the box aside and working on doing up the tie for him. “Do you remember telling me how you didn’t want to be angry? That you weren’t an angry person? That you didn’t want to be that person?” Blaine nods dumbly, heart beating out of time with the music as Kurt’s fingers work with the tie around Blaine’s collar. “Music is a part of who you are, Blaine. I know you’re nervous, and that’s okay. But you won’t forget how to play.” He straightens the tie and brushes off invisible dust before lifting his gaze to meet Blaine’s eyes. “You know… _exactly_ who you are, Blaine. You couldn’t possibly forget.”

And oh, how Kurt’s words hit home. Blaine had been worried about neglecting the world’s perception of him, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Blaine knows who he is and is comfortable in his own skin. And he knows -- he knows that he doesn’t have control over what other people think and feel and do. Maybe there are people in the world who don’t have a good opinion of him. Maybe there always will be. And that’s _okay_ , he realizes, because their opinions don’t matter. And the people’s opinions who do matter have a much more accurate, positive perception of him.

Blaine looks into Kurt’s eyes and knows that he is beautiful.

He leans in for a kiss, soft and sweet and slow, and every jittering nerve and butterfly in his stomach is suddenly calmed with the ever-present thrum and current of electricity of Kurt’s touch. “Thank you,” he mumbles against Kurt’s lips. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

“It’s just a bowtie,” Kurt laughs. He pulls back and looks at Blaine a little curiously, still smiling, but he doesn’t pry. “Do you have your camera?”

“Yeah,” Blaine answers, a little grateful for the distraction. He turns to the small table beside them and lets Kurt get reacquainted with his cameras. “I brought both of them -- I wasn’t sure how the old one would do in this lighting and I thought Marley might want to use some of the digital ones if we used the newer one, so --”

“I’ll alternate,” Kurt promises. “Any special requests?”

Blaine shakes his head and smiles. “I trust your perception.”

Kurt’s answering smile is enough to pull Blaine’s focus -- enough that Blaine only gets snippets of what happens after the most recent song ends. A burst of applause and cheering, the gentle echo of Marley’s voice -- _something new -- dear friend of mine_ , and then she’s calling his name and there’s a round of polite applause and Kurt is nudging him playfully, camera in hand. “You’re up.” Blaine looks over at Marley and tries to remember how to move his feet.

In, out, and Marley comes to his rescue. She jogs over to the wing where they’re tucked away, grin glittering and eyes sparkling. In, up, out, down, and Blaine lets Marley take his hands and pull him into the light.

It’s _blinding_ out here, warm and a little stifling, and Blaine can’t really see the faces of anyone in the audience at all. It’s a small show, especially for Marley, but the size of the crowd doesn’t necessarily make him feel any better or worse. Blaine’s eyes squint a little as he tries to adjust to the light, and with Marley’s hand guiding him, he finds his anchor at the piano. He reacquaints himself with it as Marley talks to the audience about their partnership and process. He can do this. He’s done it a hundred times at this point. This piano isn’t a stranger to him, not after the rehearsal earlier. He can’t see anyone in the audience -- he can _hear_ them, certainly, but they’re disembodied and drifting. They seem less real this way. And as they start to quiet as she speaks, Blaine takes comfort in the gentle lull of Marley’s voice.

Marley will handle the crowd. All he has to do is play and use his voice.

Fingers flexed and poised over the keys with notes wrapped around his neck, Blaine waits for Marley’s cue, ready to let the music fill him up.

“This song is called “All or Nothing.””

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 22 September 2020_

Tracie wears oranges and browns and reds today, and it is officially the start of fall. She carries her sunny yellow umbrella with her even though it’s seventy degrees outside, and when Blaine questions the choice, her answer is the same as it’s always been.

“Just in case.”

Even when the world turns dark and cold, Tracie is bright and warm.

“Would you like something to drink?” he offers.

“Something cold, preferably,” she says. “What do you have?”

Blaine opens the refrigerator and peruses the options. “I made some strawberry lemonade yesterday,” he suggests. “How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” she sighs, tugging a little at her red scarf. “I’ll meet you in the living room?”

“Actually,” Blaine says, hesitant, “can we have session out on the balcony today?”

She blinks a little in surprise but nods. “Sure,” she agrees.

Alone in the kitchen, Blaine takes a moment to fill two glasses with ice and lemonade. It’s always been important to him that Tracie feels comfortable in his space, too. Today is no different, but in a way, it is. Today is change, or -- well, Blaine hopes it will be change, anyway. Tracie is comfortable in his space and around him, no matter what the state of things are. Blaine is about to change all of that, and he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

In the living room, Blaine stops to pick up his still title-less scrapbook and tuck it up under his arm.

Out on the balcony, Blaine hands Tracie her glass and sets his scrapbook on the ground before he tries to recline comfortably against the railing. Tracie takes a few sips, lips smacking in delight before she glances over at him. “So,” she says, turning to face him, “where would you like to start today? Do you want to talk about the performance last weekend, or why we’re outside today, or --”

“I… have a request, actually,” Blaine ventures, glancing down into his glass.

“Okay,” Tracie says amicably.

In, out, and Blaine starts at the beginning.

“Tuesdays have always been the days that brought _you_ to _me_ ,” Blaine begins. “I’ve always felt safe on Tuesdays.”

There’s affection and knowing in Tracie’s smile. “And places don’t make you feel safe,” she remembers. “People do.”

In, up, out, down, and Blaine lifts his eyes to meet Tracie’s. He can give her this, at least. “I’d… like to start having our sessions at your office, if that’s okay with you.”

If Tracie is surprised, she doesn’t show it. She’s quiet for a moment, studying him, before she replies. “May I ask what brought this on?”

Blaine shifts a little uncomfortably against the railing and takes a sip of lemonade to clear his throat. “Last month, when I was at the reunion in Maine, it was the first Tuesday in a long time that I hadn’t had a session with you.”

“I remember.”

“I didn’t like it,” Blaine admits plainly. “It was… jarring. I felt… off.”

“Did you find ways to cope?” she asks.

Blaine nods. “I thought about what you said back in January, when I’d first started going outside again, about how routine was something I could rely on to help me. So I tried -- I tried to fill my time up there with things that felt more… normal, I guess. I tried to give myself things that had some sort of resemblance to routine. I gave myself anchors back to my life here.”

“And what does this have to do with you wanting to have sessions at my office?” Tracie prompts.

Blaine has a suspicion that she already knows the answer, but he gives it to her anyway. “Back then, you said that routine was what would help me with the follow-through. You said that if I made it something I did at a regular interval, it’d get easier over time. And you were right.” He pauses and looks down a little demurely at his glass, smiling. “You’re pretty much always right.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she laughs.

“No, you are,” he insists, looking back up at her. “You said it wouldn’t be easy. You said that things would go wrong. You said that I might feel like giving up, but that it didn’t mean I had to. And you were right about all of that. It’s been… _hard_ at times. You know that. You know how badly I’ve handled things, how often I’ve screwed up.”

“And yet,” Tracie says, smiling a little, “you haven’t given up yet.”

“I don’t want to,” Blaine says simply. “I’ve never wanted to. It’s like -- as soon as I had enough drive to want change, it wouldn’t go away. I just wanted to keep trying.”

“Is that what this is about?” Tracie inquires. “Having sessions at my office?”

Blaine nods. “I like -- I like my sessions with you for a lot of reasons, Tracie, but I feel like they hold me accountable.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine sighs. “Everything? Sometimes, my whole life can just feel like one completely mixed up jigsaw puzzle in my mind, and if I just… hand you the pieces, you help me sort them out and let me put them back together. And if I want to be able to do that, I have to give you all of the pieces, even the ones that aren’t helpful or pretty. I feel like I have to own up to a lot of what goes wrong with you.”

“And you like that,” she surmises.

“I like that you’re reliable,” he explains. “I like that you’re part of my routine.”

“So… what, you want a change of scenery?” she laughs.

Blaine’s mouth twitches into a smile. “You know, I can go inside and get the stress ball you gave me just to throw it at you.”

“Probably not the wisest thing to do out on the balcony,” Tracie advises dryly.

Blaine rolls his eyes but relaxes a little, trying to focus. “So _much_ has changed in my life since last Thanksgiving, Tracie, especially this year. And I just -- I’m learning to adapt to it. I’m learning to be okay with it. I feel like… I feel like making this change is another way to hold me accountable for something. If I come to you instead, I have to leave my apartment and this building. I have to make something that’s routine something that also occurs outside of my apartment.”

Again, Tracie is quiet for a moment before speaking. “Are there any other changes you want to make to our sessions? Would you still like to see me once a week?”

“For now,” Blaine affirms. “I mean, eventually, if I get to a place where I feel like I’ll be okay with a session just once a month, we can make that change then. But for now, I’d like to still see you every Tuesday.”

“When were you thinking you’d like to implement the change?” she asks. “Next week?”

Blaine shakes his head. “I was thinking the first session next month, if that’s okay? I just -- it makes more sense in my head that way.”

And again, she studies him. It’s strange -- Blaine has never really given a _lot_ of thought as to what Tracie is thinking during their sessions. It crosses his mind, occasionally, but he’s never really had reason to focus on it. Blaine’s sessions are devoted to giving Tracie the information she needs to help him. Her… opinion doesn’t usually come into play. She’s his therapist. Her function is to guide and assist and occasionally suggest. She has always tried very hard to keep her own thoughts and feelings and opinions to herself, which Blaine has understood. They’re a little more lax than they should be, perhaps, given how long he’s been seeing her. But now, Blaine finds himself wishing he could get inside of Tracie’s head like she gets into his. He wants to know what she’s thinking. He wants to know if he’s hurt her feelings.

He wants to know _her_ , because Tracie is just as human as he is, but he _can’t_ , and for the first time in over eleven years, his heart aches at the thought of the distance they have to keep between them.

Tracie has always made him feel safe. He has no idea how he makes her feel.

“If this is what you want, Blaine, I’m willing to make that change with you,” she says finally, “but if it’s okay with you, I’d like to leave me coming to you as an option, just in case.”

Just in case.

_People do belong to each other, but it’s not a bad thing_ , Emma had said. _It means there’s always someone there to catch you when you fall._

Even when Blaine has fallen, Tracie has always given him a safety net and picked him up off of the ground.

A little piece of him belongs to Tracie, too.

Blaine reaches for Tracie’s hand and looks out on the city below, anchored. “That sounds good,” he says, voice quiet.

He can feel her eyes on where their hands are joined, can feel the slight hesitancy in her grasp, can tell that there’s a part of her that wants to pull away. But when he finally brings himself to look over at her again, she hasn’t moved, and her eyes aren’t on him, but just beyond. “Have you finished your scrapbook?” she asks, nodding to the object on the ground.

Blaine glances over at it briefly before turning back to her with a smile. “Yeah -- I mean, I don’t have a title yet, but other than that, it’s done.” In, out, and Blaine lets go of Tracie’s hand. He is safe, here. “There are things I’d like to show you, if that’s okay.”

“That sounds good,” she says, an echo of his earlier words.

“Do you want to go inside, or --”

“No, we can stay here,” she says, settling down on the ground and bending one of her knees. She sets her glass on the ground and pats the empty space next to her. “Come sit with me.”

The request takes him by surprise, though he supposes it shouldn’t. He’d wanted to be outside today. There’s only so much space on the balcony. It’s more comfortable to sit, especially if they’re going to peruse the scrapbook. It’s just -- he’s always has his sessions with her inside. There have always been multiple pieces of furniture for them to choose from. They’ve never actually shared the same sitting space before, and there’s something about the request that strikes him as oddly… intimate.

It’s probably the closest he’s ever going to get to her.

On the ground amidst the remnants of his old world with the sun on his back, Blaine turns the pages and gives Tracie insight into just how much his perception has changed.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 27 September 2020_

Blaine ends up throwing a viewing party for the premiere of _A Widower’s Revenge_ , Cooper’s Lifetime original made-for-television movie. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up getting roped into it, but here, now, in the comfort of his living room, he finds that he doesn’t mind all that much.

Emma is perched in Tracie’s armchair (and it’ll always be Tracie’s even if she’ll only occupy it for one more session on Tuesday). Emma’s doing her best to pay attention to the film, but her eyes keep drifting down to the floor where Cooper and Marley are sitting comfortably in the absence of the coffee table. Cooper is, of course, providing his own in-depth commentary over the film, which means that it’s difficult for any of them to actually pay attention to what’s _actually_ going on (not that it matters, since Blaine is being forced to DVR this anyway). Marley is watching and listening with polite and vague interest, but Blaine can see her occasionally exchanging amused smiles with Emma at Cooper’s enthusiasm. Blaine’s parents occupy most of the couch, expressions mixed with amused exasperation and a little bit of pride. Blaine’s mother curls up under his father’s arm, and on the small side table beyond, Blaine can see the crumbs of his apple pie left on a plate tucked next to his scrapbook.

On the outside, the title is scrawled in Blaine’s tidy script -- _Both Sides Now_.

On the inside, the book starts and ends with photographs Kurt had taken. Both are of Blaine bathed in light. The first was taken in this room. The last, at a piano under a spotlight.

Here, on the chaise and tucked against his side, is Kurt, warm and calm and anchored to him. There’s something soothing about the weight of Kurt against him, breathing slow and even, and Blaine feels so content he could fall asleep just like this.

(He wouldn’t dare, though, not now. Cooper would probably kill him.)

For the first time, Blaine’s home is full and brimming with people, and he is content to stay inside with his family.

They’ll all leave, eventually.

Emma to her spotless little apartment near the community center.

Cooper and Marley all the way across the country.

His parents to the house he grew up in.

Kurt to his own.

They’ll come back. They always do.

And every time they leave, they’ll take the borders of his world with him, beyond the walls he lives in.

* * * * *


End file.
